sitting in a coffee house with the one you love
but a dream
but a dream
aside from the unwanted discussions
it's a nice night
painting fireside's by hand
creating newspaper love notes
you wait
for him
when he finally comes
it's too late
loving him was like
a creaking door in the night
the feeling you get when you lean your chair back
right
before
you fall
yet you wait
not mentioning to anyone
that his hands remind you of the whole world
all the oceans and deserts
all the wildlife and grasslands
you must have forgotten
it's now four am and although you're tired
there you wait
and sit
and cry
cry to the god you don't believe in
cry to the ground he walks on
cry to your hands for ever holding his
cry until your tears run dry
making the rivers feel bad for you
his eyes on your chest
always felt good
always felt pure
but now it's dark and daring
and oh my
god
is he coming back?
or is that his shadow walking away?
i guess we'll never know
i guess we'll
never
know