Living alone in a high little room She can see to the street from her window She likes it a lot but she just can't imagine it day after day She's waiting to open the boxes of books and to put all the clothes where they should go The walls may be bare, but she still can't decide if she's ready to stay She wants to be open and ready for something to knock on her door She's paying the rent but that doesn't keep her from hoping for more You'd say she'd just come, but that's not the case Can it really be years since she came to this place Going to work on a slow-moving tram Everyone needs to work for a living She likes sitting here, she can plan, she can dream, and be taken away Being a writer is what she might do if she lived in a world more forgiving She works on a story, she works on a book or it could be a play There's someone she knows who knows someone in publishing, maybe she could She'll call when she's finished the dialogue, maybe then, maybe he would She says she will call, but at her own pace Can it really be years since she came to this place Waiting for signs and she knows there'll be signs There'll be omens and so she is waiting It may be tomorrow, it may be today, but it's happening soon Out in the sunlight and under the streetlight and inside her room she is waiting Watching the shift in the seasons, the wax and the wane of the moon Watching the text on her mobile, he's asking her out for a drink She wants to say yes but it's never that easy, she needs time to think And summer is passed, and she still doesn't ring Alone in her room, can it really be spring
Living alone in a high little room She can see to the street from her window She likes it a lot but she just can't imagine it day after day She's waiting to open the boxes of books and to put all the clothes where they should go The walls may be bare, but she still can't decide if she's ready to stay She wants to be open and ready for something to knock on her door She's paying the rent but that doesn't keep her from hoping for more You'd say she'd just come, but that's not the case Can it really be years since she came to this place Going to work on a slow-moving tram Everyone needs to work for a living She likes sitting here, she can plan, she can dream, and be taken away Being a writer is what she might do if she lived in a world more forgiving She works on a story, she works on a book or it could be a play There's someone she knows who knows someone in publishing, maybe she could She'll call when she's finished the dialogue, maybe then, maybe he would She says she will call, but at her own pace Can it really be years since she came to this place Waiting for signs and she knows there'll be signs There'll be omens and so she is waiting It may be tomorrow, it may be today, but it's happening soon Out in the sunlight and under the streetlight and inside her room she is waiting Watching the shift in the seasons, the wax and the wane of the moon Watching the text on her mobile, he's asking her out for a drink She wants to say yes but it's never that easy, she needs time to think And summer is passed, and she still doesn't ring Alone in her room, can it really be spring
