not yet 21 - with introductions done - a first slow dance just ends.
I was at my best - we ignored the rest (my band and your friends).
But as better night became best day we left the party while last records played.
What started as dessert back at your house ended on the couch...
hours at your mouth...sunday's on our hands. We followed where it led.
I followed you to bed. We started secret plans.
Forward 7 months: I've only seen you once...I never call on time.
Trying to seem tough, I said one visit's enough - enough to keep you mine (of course it wasn't...)
We were done by june. You'd graduate and leave for london soon.
Your layover at newark's near my house. We met for dinner there...
just one hour to spare - your 20's all mapped out. I'm in my driest drought
feeling old and shot and how.
And this is what I thought: I seem to still be caught...
I'm a footnote at best...I envy who comes next...wish we could just make out.
'The hour's almost up', you said into your cup. And it makes no difference now, as I help lift your bags out, that I'm lost and out of rope while on my wrist you wrote your newest number down.
I kind of said your name but you'd turned to your plane so I backed my car out.
I knew we'd never write (somehow that seemed all right) but this counts as calling three years out.
