Sleeping on the back-seat of your car.
We dream of the inevitable loss
that haunts us.
We cry a little inside
with every kiss we share,
cause we know well
we're getting closer to the last one.
We're not naive;
all things go.
We're condemned to one day meet on a train
and struggle to remember
where have we seen such a beautiful face.
Even this dream won't be here tomorrow.
Pretty soon we'll be
pictures and letters
in a box,
in a closet,
gathering dust.
Ashes of flame.
We wake-up in shock,
we make love quietly
under the spring moon,
and we pretend
we've forgotten about our dream.
Perhaps if we do forget,
it won't come true,
perhaps we can last forever,
perhaps we can,
perhaps we,
perhaps.