This little, pumping organ of hers, Has started to feel a little like home. Her home is a little lost, Somewhere in the morning sunshine; She remembers, How the blinds had parted ways, Shattering her stupor, She remembers. This little, pumping organ of hers, Has started to feel a little like home. Her home is somewhere, Lost in her mother's last embrace; She remembers, How she'd held those hands for a teary while, Wilting her dread, those flowery goodbyes, Hoping she'd get to warm up to this again, She remembers. This little, pumping organ of hers, Has started to feel a little like home. Her home is somewhere, In the lonesome corner of a deserted bookstore; She remembers, The upturned pages of her last fiction, Oh, how the lattes lingered a tad bit longer, She remembers. This little, pumping organ of hers, Has started to feel a little like home. Her home is somewhere, In her lover's animated smile; She remembers, It was poetry personified, When she'd wrestle with the browns of his gaze, She remembers. This little, pumping organ of hers, Has started to feel a little like home. Her home is somewhere, In the snow-clad mountains; She remembers, Quite a cultured collegium, Bamboos, ballades and euphoria, She remembers. It is in her eyes, Everytime they meet in the mirror. She remembers, To forget.