Romantic Fantasy
We started to write a story--the story of you and me;
A tale of love that wouldn't die;
A romantic fantasy.
You said we'd write forever--that the ink would not run dry;
And so a book of love took form;
In our hearts we wrote each line.
A book of love, a book of life
A book to tell the tale
Of reunited lovers
And of how love could prevail.
Years ago, we'd written, too, but then the story seemed to end.
I'd memorized each loving line, wondering if we'd write again.
And then one day we opened up this book of love once more;
Upon the pages of my heart, you were writing as before.
Page after page, we were read, we were written;
Day after day, with our paper and pens.
Dream after dream I wrote down in the margins
And line after line, love was written again.
Line after line, love was written again.
But then we seemed to disagree over where the story'd go:
The reason wouldn't match the rhyme--or at least you told me so.
I thought that we'd keep writing, but I guess the ink ran dry.
And so you closed the book again, and didn't even say goodbye.
The book of love, the book of life--
Alone, I'll tell the tale
Of reunited lovers
And of how the love could fail.
So now I hold a manuscript that I'll put upon the shelf.
With lines erased and binding frayed,
It's the story of myself.
The book of love, the book of life--
Was it fiction, after all?
And I never knew, 'til you were gone,
That I'd been writing for a fall
Day after day, with our paper and pens.
Lie after lie you wrote down in the margins
And dream after dream you erased, once again.
Dream after dream, you erased, once again.
© SBK 1989