If ever I loved a woman pure and true,
if ever I gave my best, it was to you.
If ever I chose to be angel, holy and brave,
it was for you, only you, as I knelt in the knave.
Train ride on a rainy night, I got left behind.
It’s still raw, the memory of you in my mind.
It’s not gone well since you left for Lincoln.
I fight all these demons, turn to often to drinking.
The city I’ve always known, seems dirty and small.
I can’t find my voice, knowing you won’t answer the call.
I cherish you, the tender wound in my heart,
for it’s still the best of me, loving you, an innocent art.
You’ve done well, and I slip into the same routine.
We were close on a place high up and inbetween
the summers of a small hope, and summer of loss.
I still carry you in me, hoping our paths will again cross.
The train comes to the station, I walk home in the rain,
I never made it to Domremy or the warm coast of Spain.
I try and fight on, like you always believed I was able.
I try and fight on, despite thee empty chair at my table.