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