This time it isn't au revoir.
'Cause things are simply what they are,
nothing more, nothing less,
than the start of loneliness.
We tried it all in our own way.
But we don't mean the words we say.
It's so hard to be unfair,
then again, we really care,
didn't we?
Why, I guess we'll never really know,
but if we must, we'll simply go,
our separate ways to who knows where.
Why, why must there always be a time,
when dreams are left to die behind,
as if it didn't matter now.
This time it isn't au revoir,
and things are only what they are,
nothing more, nothing less,
than the end of tenderness.
Why, I guess we'll never really know,
but if we must, we'll simply go,
our separate ways to who knows where.
Why, why must there always be a time,
when dreams are left to die behind,
as if it didn't matter now
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