In a cafe in a town maybe I once lived in
On a rainy late September afternoon
She was sitting all alone with a paperback novel
I stole a glance, she turned away too soon
  And the pages were brittle and the spine was broken
  and the waitress brought my bill
I said, Bring hers too, but don’t tell her about me
or the way she so clearly makes me feel

Any footprints that I might have left getting to that city
disappeared just like the footprints going out
And the memory of a redheaded woman  in a diner
may not be enough to eliminate all doubt
  That I made the whole thing up
  Just imagined my existence
  Dreamed a dream and called it heavensent
But how do you explain, my dear, this faded old receipt
for fourteen dollars eighty-seven cents?

It’s hard to keep track of all the changes we’ve been through
and who I was when I first saw your face
Someday you’ll find some old locket in a drawer
with a photograph of someone you can’t place
  And the memory is there, just out of reach
  only for a moment then it’s gone
Are you more afraid of forgetting or being forgotten?
Either way, that’s why I wrote this song.

(for Weatherfield)