IRC-Galleria

okkervil river- song of our so-called friend

Remember when our so-called friend would not call out to you while tumbling loosely out a hole punched through your home? ItÂ’s pretty clear, though you could hear, you truly finally knew, in time, heÂ’d tell his tale the way heÂ’d like it told. Now he isnÂ’t on the phone, and his story might as well be so.

Well, loving is as loving does, and IÂ’d say we should know, because we both have loved, have lost, and are alone. Your faceÂ’s falling tears, to me theyÂ’re lovely and theyÂ’re dear, though you donÂ’t love me and itÂ’s clear that I will never see you in my arms. ThereÂ’s no room in your heart for even this finely-sharpened dart; although I had started to think there might be hope, it isnÂ’t so.

So wake up, make up some new song again around the same tune. The water cools, the leaves they fall, the sun it bends, the summer ends; our so-called friend doesnÂ’t need you.

So proceed out the door and down the street. DecemberÂ’s lying near, but in the ovenÂ’s heat this house is now a home. Sixty days of trips and stays you took to tell me, dear, that you cannot love me because you secretly still love a stone. Although I put my lips to your face, trying to push his kiss out of its place, although my heart started to race, now it has slowed, IÂ’ll let it go.