Comfort in Your Strangeness
And I wish you Sunrays and Saturdays
Perfect starry nights
Sweet dreams and moonbeams
And a love that's warm and bright
Sunrays and Saturdays
Friendship strong and true
Oceans of blue and a room with a view
To live the life you choose
"Sunrays and Saturdays," Vertical Horizon
It still creeps up on me sometimes— in the middle of doing the most mundane of tasks, like signing documents, or collating papers— that we had once promised ourselves forever. And that now, in spite of this, we are all but practially strangers. The thought confuses and amuses me: was it that we did not mean what we said, or that we just did not know what we were saying? Indeed, how fragile are the bonds that keep us connected; how ephemeral the links that keep us committed. It is as though we never really happened, like all of it was a dream, a movie, a figment of the imagination, a cruel joke.
Shaking off the feeling, though, I know, I know, that all of it was true. All of it. And all that is left now is some vague regret and half-forgotten memory of that magical, distant summer, when you were mine, and I was yours. No doubt, you made me happy (a tall order, indeed, considering the person I am). And in spite of all this strangeness, this is, perhaps for me— and perhaps for now— a comfort that is enough.
Perfect starry nights
Sweet dreams and moonbeams
And a love that's warm and bright
Sunrays and Saturdays
Friendship strong and true
Oceans of blue and a room with a view
To live the life you choose
"Sunrays and Saturdays," Vertical Horizon
It still creeps up on me sometimes— in the middle of doing the most mundane of tasks, like signing documents, or collating papers— that we had once promised ourselves forever. And that now, in spite of this, we are all but practially strangers. The thought confuses and amuses me: was it that we did not mean what we said, or that we just did not know what we were saying? Indeed, how fragile are the bonds that keep us connected; how ephemeral the links that keep us committed. It is as though we never really happened, like all of it was a dream, a movie, a figment of the imagination, a cruel joke.
Shaking off the feeling, though, I know, I know, that all of it was true. All of it. And all that is left now is some vague regret and half-forgotten memory of that magical, distant summer, when you were mine, and I was yours. No doubt, you made me happy (a tall order, indeed, considering the person I am). And in spite of all this strangeness, this is, perhaps for me— and perhaps for now— a comfort that is enough.
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