Forty thousand birds are singing out good morning
but I barely hear the song.
While you're sound asleep on another frequency
I put my finger on what's wrong.
From here on out
it just gets hard,
and then more complicated.
It's not about the love we made,
it's more about the days ahead
and then the days ahead of them,
the nagging doubt
that maybe you were my mistake.
I recall the time you posed in the museum
like some ancient work of art.
Then there was last night, how do you explain it -
it's just the language of the heart.
From here on out
it just gets weird,
and then we both get quiet.
It's not about the old times sake,
it's more about the days ahead
and then the days ahead of them,
the nagging doubt
that maybe you were my mistake.