Maps, stars, and hands

If my tigers eye can protect me, What does that mean for your eyes? If your hands are the ones that fit Perfectly In mine, And your arms Are the only ones that i want to surround me, What does that make me? If you're bad at finding a place, And I'm bad at decisions, What does that mean For us? If you're bad at reading the stars, And I'm horrible at reading maps, Where does that leave us? Because the Big Dipper always Points North. Or was that a different star? The maps always fold In Then out, Or was it back and forth? See, I can't fold, But I can hold. Hold you close, and tight. Tight enough That you'll never have to question If it's real. Close enough that you can feel My heart beating against yours, And I can feel yours on mine. You're good with cars, And I'm good with words, Together, They don't make good cookies, But they do Make amazing brownies, And maybe a great sandwich. Your words are like a soft melody, That my heart has been waiting to hear, And that my ears are worried about seeing. But my tongue has forgotten how to function, So it just creates new words, And it's unsure of all the new meanings. So lets say for a moment That you're blue, And I'm red. Would we make purple? Or brown? Because You've always been a little more green, Then blue. But the Blue-Green suites you. It brings out the green that's soft in your almond eyes. The pink of your lips, And the roses in your cheeks. Red suites me. I've always been a little fiery. A bit of a hot head. But you'd say that's a lie, That the red suited me, For my ruby cheeks, That can't be paled. For the pink in my lips, And For my love of the color. That it looks great on me. (It has always been my color) Then again, I've never liked purple-- Brown always seemed sweeter. And I never liked knowing where I was going, The mystery of the adventure, Always made me giddy. So I suppose it doesn't matter that you're a little more green then blue, Or that you can't read the stars, And I can't read maps, Or that you're bad at finding places, And I'm bad at picking them, And it surely doesn't matter that I can't fold That damn map. So let's rip it to shreds, Throw it out the window, And press the petal. Turn the pages, And laugh Till the tears fill our eyes. Because there's no one else Who can make brown Such a salty sweet color. And there's no one else, Who's hands, Could ever fold, So perfectly, Around mine.