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And when you recline into the yellow leaves,
Lipstick-scrawled; those tired phrases
I try to keep looking straight ahead
Try to stop my jaw from clenching.
I think its very sad you have to do that,
But then I could ruffle through those memories
The scribbles written out for ten years;
My charms; and youd see them swept away
Away and down some other street
Where former lovers pass each other by.
No one recognises the street,
The name of the street is not important
And the names of the lovers are all forgotten
I write them down in my notebook
And they seem like heirlooms of dead language
Dead as that language you use
Cold as the reply to a question, coldly rational
Do you know I see the wall youve built, and Im not sure
theres anything on the other side anymore
I do think its true though, the wall's there