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The weeks slip through our fingers |
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Like the dry sand blowing across the dunes |
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Swept into a cardboard box |
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Filled with forgotten photographs and abandoned songs |
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The past few years |
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Illuminated only by the dim glow |
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Of a sun setting in the east |
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Now it's almost night |
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I scour the landscape |
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Trying to make out your familiar shape against the horizon |
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But it's amazing how rarely our paths cross |
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Considering we share the same bed |
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The sand stings my face |
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I keep walking, keep looking |
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I can barely make out the sound of my own voice beneath the wind |
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Maybe we'll be alone, maybe we'll be alone |
