|
When he moves |
|
I watch him from behind |
|
He turns and laughter flickers in his eyes |
|
Intent and direct when he speaks, |
|
I watch his lips |
|
And when he drives |
|
I love to watch his hand |
|
White and smooth, almost feminine |
|
Almost American, |
|
I have to watch him |
|
In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth |
|
He caught me looking then but soon his eyes forgot |
|
And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue |
|
I saw him searching into you and ached a while |
|
I watch his lips caress the glass |
|
His fingers stroke its stem and pass |
|
To lift a cigarette at last, he dries his eyes |
|
From a shadow by the stair |
|
I watch as he weeps unaware |
|
That I'm in awe of his despair |
|
In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth |
|
He caught me looking then but soon his eyes forgot |
|
And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue |
|
I saw him searching into you and ached a while |
|
When he moves |
|
I watch him from behind |
|
He turns and laughter flickers in his eyes |
|
Intent and direct when he speaks, |
|
I watch his lips |
|
And when he drives |
|
I love to watch his hand |
|
White and smooth, almost feminine |
|
Almost American, |
|
I have to watch him |
|
In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth |
|
He caught me looking then but soon his eyes forgot |
|
And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue |
|
I saw him searching into you and ached a while |