Three years is a long, long time to fly standby,
And pillow-talk from a cellular phone isn't healthy--
Neither am I...
I read your reply, from the hand scribbled rose,
To your heart-felt goodbye...
So please, destroy the letters you saved,
With the flowers I sent to you,
Pressed between pages of lies.
Your scrapbook is open for service,
So please be a sweetheart,
And see that our pages are white.
One thing is certain:
The sun will rise, and I'll keep flying.
I fold my arms, stare to the ceiling and wonder:
How is the weather there?
I read your reply, from the hand scribbled rose,
To your heart-felt goodbye...
I read your reply,
And I fail to believe that your words don't decieve me...
So please, destroy the letters you saved,
With the flowers I sent to you,
Pressed between pages of lies.
Your scrapbook is open for service,
So please be a sweetheart,
And see that our pages are white.
Airports (airports) aren't the way they once were (aren't the way they once were);
No more waiting through tall windows for her return...
I'll turn up, I'll turn up,
I'll turn up the sound of loneliness...
So please, destroy the letters you saved,
With the flowers I sent to you,
Pressed between pages of lies.
Your scrapbook is open for service,
So please be a sweetheart,
And see that our pages--
So please, destroy the letters you saved,
With the flowers I sent to you,
Pressed between pages of lies.
Your scrapbook is open for service,
So please be a sweetheart,
And see that our pages are white.
