In the meadow

where the flowers grow,

Birds were flying,

putting on a show.

Then the rain stopped,

and I heard the news.

She still thinks of me,

walks in my shoes.

If she tells our story,

complains to friends,

I keep her secrets

where the heartache never ends.

We're a song about goodbye,

stripped of all disguise.

I'm the sadness with no name,

beneath the stranger's skies.

When they ask how I am,

I smile and say I'm fine.

As long as I'm still living in her songs,

still on her mind.

I'm a melody without a lyre,

A flame that burns but has no fire.

They say a song's imagination's spark,

But mine's the lightning tearing through the dark.

I'm still singing, still singing,

Even when the music's gone.

This sorrow's got no explanation,

Just a stranger in his own imagination.

But I thank God for every day

That she remembers me this way.

That she remembers me this way.