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 your 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 were 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 dream 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?
how can I be sure?