The Lovesong Writer - Thursday

Sitting alone in the dark of a stadium

He whispers his secrets into a cheap guitar

With the flick of his wrist he turns words into melodies

Chords into church bells, fill up the allies

Lovers intwine in the heat of the night

And by dawn are apart in the shivering silences

We will pretend

That its all just made up The songs that he writes

Are too personal

He cant play them for anyone

When hes all alone, the lovesong writer sings

Ooooh

Can anyone, hear me now?

No one hears him now

So he stumbles through syllables, cut from their sentences

Lost letters call to him, deep in the alphabet

«Please give us meaning»

Pose for me now

You’re the broken heart

You’re the sigh in the back of the throat

And on the other side

You’re the queen of spades

You’re the sound that she makes on her way

Theres always a way out

Theres always a way out

When hes all alone, the lovesong writer sings

Ooooh

Can anyone, hear me now?

But no one hears at all

The lovesong writer sits all alone

When he hears the sound of the knock at the door

50 red roses, falling apart

In the hands of someone that you scraped in and left behind

All of the others strolled up and showed up at your door

Staring you down, they said:

Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now

Sing for me, sing for me, sing for me now

We already are