I remember your face,

And you have my picture.

 

You have my picture

That’s mussed and greasy, dimly-lit but well-dressed

As the last time you saw me.

 

You have my picture

In Victoria, where I imagine you’re

Sitting by the harbor, with the sunset in your hair.

 

You have my picture 

In Hadera, where I hope your grandfather is happy to see you.

 

You have my picture,

And I’ve tried to write you a song three times

And failed three times to

Part the C Major between us,

‘Cause you’re something different, 

Or I’d walk 4,000 miles for a smile,

Or anything I should have said sooner.

 

You have my picture,

And you’re bored, though you didn’t go out much before anyway,

And I’m learning Welsh, and you’re still rubbish at faking a British accent,

And I tell you I’m happy--all things considered--

Because you can’t tell otherwise.

You have my picture,

And still you decided to call.