Sundays

I miss you most on Sundays
In the evenings
In the evenings.  

When I face the week alone in a panic
And I hate it
And I’m fading.  

‘Cause I’ve lost a bit of time
I ought to have spent giving.
And I could miss my life
Working over living.

The hour’s late and I should really hit those books
But they’ll be here tomorrow.
What I should really do is listen for a while
To understand your sorrow.

Tell me, tell me sister
What do you believe in?
Tell me, tell me
But do not speak from reason.  

Tell me, tell me sister
What do you believe in?
Tell me, tell me
But do not speak from reason.
We only take these jobs
Out of fear of getting lost.
I think we only write these books
Because we’re afraid to talk.  

Wait up for me I bed a little longer
I’ve one more song to write
And then I
Will turn out
The light.