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And the most curious thing |
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Aside from the way that the sun often shines inappropriately on a crisis |
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Aside from the strange sense of calm |
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And the way that we instinctively sit on the seats on the left hand side of the top deck of your local bus |
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Is what happens to all of the secrets we carelessly shared on those January days on the sofa in the front room of your terraced house? |
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Now things are over, tell me do they just disappear or get broadcast on all channels and frequencies around town? |
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I guess we both feel like talking |
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But maybe we could find a way to be discreet this time? |
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And we're fine with the truth |
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It's more just the stuff we'll make up when we're drunk to find favour with friends and distant acquaintances |
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And you're welcome to say I'm often distracted and don't always put my books straight back on their bookshelves, they just lie around |
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And I'll just say you're forgetful |
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From PIN numbers, birthdays and dentist appointments to paying your rent |
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But they know that anyway |
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And we'll just leave it there |
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If anyone asks well we just grew apart and there's nothing to share |
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I know we both feel like talking |
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But maybe we could find a way to be discreet? |
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And I'll stand aside, bite my tongue until the moment subsides |
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I'll stand aside and let everyone think that you're sweetness and light |
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I'll stand aside, close my eyes until the moment subsides |
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I'll stand aside and let everyone think that you're sweetness and light |
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And I'll pack my bags |
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Warm as the sun shines obliviously |
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I know it's a poor consolation for me |
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As I sit on the bus in our regular seats |
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The secrets we shared in your old terraced house on those January days |
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Will stay with the sofa and moth-eaten chairs |
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Fade over time, disappear |
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And I'll stand aside and let people decide for themselves |
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If you're sweetness and light... or something else |
