And things will be different next time, you say. And you want to believe but you can’t believe and weeks go by. Days, weeks. Time, and you say, maybe this time.
And you meet someone. A he or a she. He or she asks you out. It’s a wonderful evening.
And you’ve been seeing him or her for a while. And he or she asks you to stay for the night. And you know what that means. If you say yes, they will know. They will see.
And if you say no, they will never believe you want to believe. That you love and want to be loved in return.
And so you say yes. You have dinner and wine. You watch an old movie. So romantic, so sad. But now it's time. You know it can't wait and you say, before we go any further...
And she, or he, gives you a kiss; he or she says, there’s nothing you could say. Nothing you could tell me that would change my mind. I’m crazy about you. I don’t care if you escaped from somewhere. I don’t care if you’re a foreign spy. Whatever you are that you think I won’t love, you’re wrong. I love you. Maybe I shouldn’t say it this soon, but I do.
And so you tell them. He, or she. What you are now, and what you have been. That now you are you, but then you were them.
And they listen, they're quiet. He, or she. And it’s late and you’re tired and the wine and you sleep, and you leave in the morning. And he, or she, they promise to call.
And he or she does. And he or she tells you that love means trust. If you’d told me straight out, says he or she. If you’d been up front. But you weren’t. And you didn’t. And it's really a shame, says he, or she.
There’s nothing you could tell me.
Until it’s been told.
There’s nothing you could say.
Until it’s been said.
And you want to love and be loved in return. And they would’ve left then had you told them up front; they want to believe it's not about shame and as long as they do, there’s nothing you can say.