To her I'd sent my hidden bluebirds,
bluemoons, and secret smiles.
The girl with night in her hair,
(and in her air),
would be the death of me.

"Cause you can't get away", he said, "you can't get away".
So that must be why I still see him on that chair,
in front of the great window,
open. (He, who had always been shut.)
And over the empty ashtray,
the window pours the Sun on me,
but to what relief,
if the wall is still casting
its punishing shadows?