| We are sitting at a table in a bar in Baltimore
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| It’s the last night of December
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| And the room is nearly full
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| And the front door pulls a draft in every time it opens wide
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| And you are telling me a story
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| From another time and life
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| And the waitress brings our order
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| And we’re tucked in mighty close
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| And I feel like we belong among
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| The living and these ghosts
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| And I know that I am dreaming
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| As I memorize each part
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| In the telling lies a reverie
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| In the details lie the heart
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| Like the folds of summer dresses
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| Like the scent upon my wrist
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| Like the way you played guitar
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| Like a boxer punches with his fist
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| And taken or just lost to me
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| It’s better now to say
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| I dwell in possibility
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| On New Year’s Day
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| There’s a jukebox or a bandstand
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| And we’re on another round
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| And the night’s just getting started
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| Or the night’s just winding down
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| And your stories are not clouded yet by the ale
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| Or by the gin
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| They just make me feel as if I’ve known you
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| All my life again
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| Like the folds of summer dresses
|
| Like the scent upon my wrist
|
| Like the way you played guitar
|
| Like a boxer punches with his fist
|
| And taken or just lost to me
|
| It’s better now to say
|
| I dwell in possibility
|
| On New Year’s Day
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| And this is what it looked like
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| When we started walking home
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| The night sky bleached to silver
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| Against the city’s bones
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| In dreams or in our waking
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| It’s just enough to say
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| Love and grace and endless flowers
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| Be ours on New Year’s Day
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| And the folds of summer dresses
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| And the bangles on my wrist
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| And the way you played guitar
|
| Like a boxer punches with his fist
|
| And taken or just lost to us
|
| It’s better now to say
|
| We dwell in possibility
|
| On New Year’s Day |