What will become of me, I'll lie again.
I'll fill my bed with ghosts, with the dead.
I'll count the streets, the days that keep us apart.
I'll await your phone call on Sunday afternoons.
I'll curse the couples who, locked in embrace,
dream of vacant hotel rooms.
And I'll calmly hate your laughter,
all my words, our parting.
What will become of me, I'll say obscenities
to the beautiful women who walk down my street.
Uninvited, I will sneak into your parties.
When the memory of you comes to me, I'll cackle truculently.
I'll look for you in all the agreed places
even if you don't come, even if you've already forgotten me.
I'll write you the verses I never did.
I'll be on time like you always wanted.
What will become of me, I'll travel far
so the echo of your nights will never reach me.
What will become of me, I doubt any bar
will serve all the alcohol that I need to forget.
I'll look for you in all the agreed places
even if you don't come, even if you've already forgotten me.
I'll write you the letters I never did.
I'll be on time like you always wanted.
