wistful

Sunday night - the calm before the clank and clamor of the Monday morning commute and the waking commotion of a city. Quiet here, contemplative in this room, music playing at low volume through these speakers. Keyboard at my fingertips. What I write on the monitor. A chill in the air.

Standing briefly, parting the blinds with my fingers, I can look out to see the sparkle of Manhattan's Upper East Side across the water. Private rooms and private lives beyond the fixed gleam of those copper pinpoints of light. Turning my gaze to the left I see the office buildings of Midtown, aglow against the night, cold sentinels cutting the air.

I see the time and know that dawn awaits me. Soon I shall be here in darkness and silence to find a fragment of contentment through my unremitting restlessness.

"Got no reason for coming to me and the rain running down.
There's no reason.
And the same voice coming to me like it's all slowin' down.
And believe me -

I was the one who let you know
I was your sorry-ever-after. '74-'75.

It's not easy, nothing to say 'cause it's already said.
It's never easy.
When I look on in your eyes then I find that I'll do fine.
When I look on in your eyes then I'll do better.

I was the one who let you know
I was your sorry-ever-after."