Of a (C)now late (C/B)after(D)noon,
As the (C)sun shines (C/B)through the (D)curtained lace
And (G)shadows wash the (Emin)room. (G/F) - (Emin)
And we sit and drink our (C)coffee
Couched in (C/B)our in(D)difference,
Like (D/B)shells up(D)on the (C)shore
You can hear the ocean (G)roar (G/E) - (G/F) - (G/E)
In the (C)dangling (C/B)conver(D)sation
And the (D/B)super(D)ficial (C)sighs,
The borders of our (G)lives. (G/E) - (G/F) - (G/E)
And you
read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
And the dangled conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?"
"Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.
