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