After knowing the facts of speech,
after searching all my passions,
I try to write her amber face
that wilts into the shadows,
I try to clutch the world
through her own dark eyes,
and yet I could never be her,
never really have her.
See,
I have this bar, this plan,
this expatriate design,
people who claim I am all
there is to move the war,
help actually, help them,
yeah I try,
but I have a life as well.
My heart? dead on the tarmac
at 2 a.m.
Fog, bars, boats and planes,
they all come and go,
whir and gurgle in the night.
And there is her.
She came, touched and went.
And though we hold,
and kiss and converse,
there is always the doubt
that we ever did meet.
There is always a doubt
the last night was real.
