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(After Lars WinnerbƤck)
You can easily go stomping once your foot is through the door.
Itās easy to throw love to someone who can trust in whom itās for
but not as easy being into those who donāt show what they feel.
Itās been weeks since you last called me so I think I see the deal.
You have a way with words to make us sound like such a thrill.
You have this way of losing me when you feel youāve had your fill.
You shelter me from rainstorm when you want and when you care,
then forget me in the downpour as if āliāl meā ās not there.
Do I even mean something to you? Donāt hide from me.
Iām waiting by the phone
when you canāt stand to be alone
so you turn to āliāl meā,
but one day Iāll be out of sight as mere painful history.
As soon as I feel comfy in your smiling eyes on me,
your mouth has bitter words for me that bring calamity.
I doubt your words of ābeauty of the deep pits of despairā.
The sun has kissed your eyes and you have never been down there.
Autumn comes and once again your gaze is far away.
It comes across as part of this whole game you tend to play.
When darkness cloaks our town and then the wintertime is near,
I wave, but you donāt see me, and I shout, but you donāt hear.
Do I even mean something to you? Thatās hard to see.
You play me as a game
and leave me with the blame
when you look at āliāl meā,
and one day Iāll be out of sight as mere painful history.
You love is only red and youāre playing at romance,
I get all swept along with it, so easily we dance,
but one day itās all enshrined as an old poem that youāve read.
I canāt like you walk tightrope between both coziness and dread.
Time moves like the heart beats and just like the grape you see
on the vine gone rotten,
yeah, soon itās all forgotten.
Poor dumb old āliāl meā.
Yeah, one day Iāll be out of sight as mere painful history.
And worst of all: This song is from a girl, to me.