In the stick-count for the song
|
of knowing you're gone
|
glancing up at where you lived
|
when you lived here
|
|
I see you suddenly alive
|
and nearly smiling
|
stop and hold my breath
|
and watch the way you used to be
|
|
the full moon makes
|
our faces shine
|
like over-ironed polyester
|
|
then disappears
|
behind the clouds
|
leaves me under empty rows
|
of night windows
|
|
we could walk to where these streets
|
get pulled together
|
a blinking line with gravel
|
shoulders squared towards an end
|
|
where the radio resounds
|
from doppling traffic
|
|
where the power lines steal
|
S's from the hourly news
|
|
depluralize
|
our casualities
|
drown the generals out in static
|
|
we'd turn and watch
|
our city sprawl
|
send us signals in the glow
|
of night windows
|
|
night windows
|
night windows
|
|
but you're not
|
coming home again
|
-Night windows-
|
and i won't
|
ever get to say
|
-Night windows-
|
|
remember how, i'm sorry that
|
i miss the way, could we...
|
|
remember how, i'm sorry that
|
i miss the way, could we...
|
|
|
night windows
|
night windows
|
|
-----------------
|
Night Windows
|
| The Weakerthans |
