Slow Is A Skill

Everybody wants the lightning,

everybody tells that story —

how it hit them at a bus stop

and the whole world went to glory.

Mine came in like morning does,

no thunder, no parade.

I didn't know that I was falling

till I noticed I had stayed.

And they'll tell you that's the boring kind.

They've never had the good kind —

Slow is a skill, baby.

Anybody can catch fire.

Try keeping a small flame burning

through a hard year and a bad month.

Slow is a skill, and I'm still learning,

and I'd rather learn with you —

lightning's just a talent.

Slow is what you do.

I know the songs you hum while cooking.

I know which side of the bed you'll take.

I know the face you make at bad news

before you say you're fine.

That took eleven years of paying

attention on the quiet days —

that's the whole secret,

and nobody puts it in a song.

So let them chase the lightning.

Let them tell their bus stop stories —

Slow is a skill, baby.

Anybody can start something.

Try showing up on a plain evening

when there's nothing to be won.

Slow is a skill, and I'm still learning,

and I'll learn it till I'm through —

lightning's just an accident.

Slow is what I choose.

Slow is a skill, baby,

and here's what took me all this time:

I used to think that love was something

that happens to a man —

it isn't. It's a thing he practises,

badly, daily, till it's true.

So set the tempo. I'll keep it.

Slow. Slow. With you.