there's a city in France where the people still dance
across living rooms lit by lamps and moon
little turns are in time
silhouettes paint the blind
and sad endings they never come too soon
the way the night fell on your face
the way the right words used to taste
the way that everything I wasted, now I carry
made up stories for fun
never the loneliest ones
with the saddest of eyes, the longest face
saw the same matinee
for a week every day
read the credits and stayed until the end
the way the night fell on your face
the way the right words used to taste
the way that everything I wasted, now I carry