There's something romantic
about sitting in the same seat
on the bus
everyday
And another stranger sits in his...
same seat
everyday
And I'll never love any man so much as those
strangers' faces
passing in the train windows
heading the other direction
How many of these strangers I've loved
I'll never know
But my heart is in a million pieces
for each of these passing expressions
You could pile the pieces up in your palm
and blow
them all over,
touching a million faces and kissing
A million strangers, not so strange
anymore
And there's something romantic
about a man who limps
with a skip in his step
Or a woman
whose scar smile makes her
forever happy, or so it seems
to all those strangers who will never know the truth