Hope is more than just the smile
that remains on my face
while I wait
on 88th street
where you said we'd meet.
Hope's on the corner
of this Madison Street
somewhere deep, down inside of me.
Hope's on the tips of my fingers
in the seams of my heart,
as I place yet another quarter in the pay phone.
The same fingertips that reached for you
the night before
in my dreams.
Hope's what I hear
in a phone booth -
as the busy signal constantly rings
because deep down I know it only blocks out
all I refuse to hear.
Things like reality
and things like the inaudible sound
of you not picking up on the other end.
Hope erases all of that far too well
And hope's in a car
that's passing by.
Then in another, then others;
and as time passes by the same,
more and more of the cars begin to look like yours.
Hope is more than just the smile
that remains on my face
as I walk away from 88th street alone.
Hope's more than just the logic
I illogically seek ---
like maybe you told me another street.
Hope's on the edge of my fingers
on a seam in my heart
at the edge of a night where I've never really had you.
And even if it's
only a dream,
hope's still there as I reach.
No matter how sad
I ever seem,
hope's still there as I hear...
through all the traffic in streets,
through all the time of our day,
through all the facts of reality
that are swept away.
I know I've heard something through it all
And as I turn my head to catch a glimpse
through all the impossibilities,
I turn my head to see if it's you.
So far from 88th street, I've turned my head with hope.
