Out of My Book

We sat by ourselves, still looking for company;
there could have been peace, but that eluded me -
all I could think of was what was on my mind.
You tried to be kind,
but I blocked your feelings;
now, senses still reeling, you sit in your quiet room and cry.
You tried to make me one,
but I always hide when there's a glimpse of sun.

Running along in sunlight meadows,
your eyes were never more than half-closed:
through fluttering lashes, you watched me watching you.
I tried to be true
to the way that you thought I ought to be
but in spite of all my efforts I failed.
I tried to make you see
but your eyes are blind to all but the bad in me.

What do you think I mean
when I say that I need you?
How am I supposed to seem
when we hit another problem
and the answers are all torn from my book?

Our lives are on paths we just can't control;
we can grow closer as we get old.
Can you imagine us as we adjust?
Can you imagine us
getting near eighty,
we live more sedately, still hoping the dreams will come true?

We'll try to be secure.
But I'm of uncertain mind
and how can I be sure?
How can I be sure?