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(costello/bacharach) |
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These rooms play tricks upon you |
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Remember when they were always filled with laughter |
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But now they're quite deserted |
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They seem to just echo voices raised in anger |
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Maybe you will see my face |
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Reflected there on the pane |
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In the window up above for long |
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In broken home |
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Yet this house is empty now |
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There's nothing i can do |
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To make you want to stay |
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So tell me how am i supposed to live without you |
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These walls were lined with pictures |
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Remember the glass we charged in celebration |
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But now i fill my life up |
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With all that i can to deaden this sensation |
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Do you recognize the face |
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Fixed in that fine silver frame |
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Were you really so unhappy there |
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You never said |
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So this house is empty now |
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There's nothing i can do to make you want to stay |
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So tell me how am i supposed to live without you |
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Oh, if i could just become forgetful |
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When night seems endless |
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Does the extinguished candle care |
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About the darkness |
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It's funny how the memory |
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Will bring you so close then make you disappear |
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Meanwhile all our friends must choose |
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Who they will favour, who they will lose |
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Hang the garland high, or close the door |
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Or throw away the key |
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This house is empty now |
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There's no one living here |
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You have to care about |
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This house is empty now |
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There's nothing i can do |
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To make you want to stay |
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So tell me how am i supposed to live without you |
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This house is empty now |
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This house is empty now |
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There's nothing i can do |
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This house is empty now |
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This house is empty now |
