Lyrics:

On a highway along the Atlantic I'm rifling through these last seventeen years.
The radio waxes romantic. Its lullabies fill our eyes with tears.

We don't say a word.
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard.
And how you've grown my little bird.
I'm regretting letting you fly.

Six pounds and seven ounces. A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you.
Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands ever grew.

We don't say a word.
There's nothing to say that hasn't been heard.
And how you've grown my little bird.
I'm regretting letting you fly.
I'm regretting letting you fly.
I'm regretting letting you fly.

On a highway. On a highway.