Tiltmeter In April
In April- You're closer to the sun in a window seat.
Eight hundred k's until we meet and I'll meet you
standing still. A pilot standing by must have caught your
eye. That jet-lagger he's in disguise he's one of the
million. This clock's gathering dust and I'm not
impressed. Fly away to my address and my turbulent gut. I
patiently give up as the final call's announced over the
terminal and I curse back at the sun. I'm breathing fuel,
its chemicals could start a fire and burn until I sight
your arrival but I probably never will. You promised
you'd be on that flight, least of all you said you'd
write. I guess you couldn't find the time and probably
never will. I'm sorry if your dreams didn't come true.
I'm sorry they were sure you would board. I'm sorry that
of a million passengers not one was you.
