At precisely eight fifteen tonight
the world shall start to go wrong,
and all the dreams that we might have shared,
shall be stained by each sad song.
But you could hide in my secret poem,
skip across the words that rhyme,
find in you another you,
who'll finally get it right this time.
The last walk that we took
the day it was raining upside down,
the sky might still have been up above
but the clouds they were on the ground.
Then the day that i stood
atop the city's highest rise,
but in vain i tried and tried and tried,
on tiptoes to touch the skies.
For there was a moon shaped hole in the night,
but the moon shone through from a puddle;
i touched the edge, sent ripples across,
and the moonlight flickered ever so subtle.
This is a world where things are wrong
or right if we call it so;
for its you and i and in our heads
who else will ever know?