| Tears on a pillow
|
| Eyes on the phone
|
| You pour all the love that you keep inside
|
| Into a song
|
| Like «He's Gone»
|
| And these are the thoughts that you keep inside
|
| You smile from your window
|
| And stand all alone
|
| And pour all the love that you keep inside
|
| Into the phone
|
| Into the phone
|
| And like the leaves on the trees
|
| Like the Carpenters song
|
| Like the planes and the trains and they lives that were young
|
| He’s gone
|
| And it feels like the words to a song
|
| With the style of a widow
|
| And the place of your own
|
| You pour all the words that you keep inside
|
| Into the phone
|
| And sit alone
|
| And these are the thoughts that you keep inside
|
| And smile from your window
|
| And stand all alone
|
| And pour all the love that you keep inside
|
| Into a song
|
| Into a song
|
| And like the leaves on the trees
|
| Like the Carpenters song
|
| Like the planes and the trains and they lives that were young
|
| He’s gone
|
| And it feels like the words to a song
|
| And like the stains on the names of the lives of the young
|
| He’s gone
|
| And it feels like the words to a song
|
| And like the leaves on the trees
|
| Like the Carpenter’s song
|
| Like the planes and the trains and they lives that were young
|
| He’s gone
|
| And it feels like the words to a song
|
| And like the stains on the names of the lives of the young
|
| He’s gone
|
| And it feels like the words to a song
|
| So gone
|
| So gone |