The Last Hours of Sunday

Oh my friend, here we sit again,
In the last hours of sunday.
Still staving off the monday
By what began on friday.
You laughing through a haze of amber,
Me falling over in the bathroom,
That phone call! The cab that never showed.
What night was that?
Oh God, I didn't!


But now it's all burned out to cinders.
Warm spirits turning pale and numb.
Encroach of monday drains the fun
And our frequent chatter begins to stall,
Becoming clearly less and less.
"Maybe it wasn't such a great idea,"
"Perhaps I'm not that able after all."
Defeatist feelings
Forlorn and creeping.


And oh my friend, my dear here friend,
Though we've had such laughs this weekend,
I know so well it will end,
And I'm longing for someone other than you
To be by my side tonight,
To feed my soul with love,
To remind me what I lost
And end all my confusions.
But it's impossible.