After the pregnancy scare and ensuing problems, Mick and Rosie are now trying to pick up the pieces and mend what there is to mend.

This story (or rather most of Rosie's role in my string of stories) was inspired by the song "Far Gone Now" by Vaya Con Dios. I have included the lyrics at the end of this story because they would give too much of the plot away if read beforehand.

Life went on rather uneventfully. We resumed what we used to do together before the pregnancy had opened the terrible rift between us – the music, the dancing, at a later point even the lovemaking, although Rosie was careful now about taking precautions to avoid another unwanted surprise. The laughing, the passion, the intimacy came back, albeit tinged with the awareness how shaky the ground beneath our feet could be, how fast things could turn sour. How easily trust was betrayed.

I felt that Rosie had gotten my message, though. She had understood that she had to be trustful and truthful with me. She paid me the stolen money back and neither of us ever mentioned the incident again, nor the abortion.

We did have some debates about our future, about getting married and the prospect of a family, but she flatly refused to go the traditional way, refused to quit her job at the bar for something with less irregular hours once I had saved up enough to buy my boat and a modest home somewhere up the coast. She kept saying she'd had enough of village life and family life to last several lifetimes.

I still regretted the loss of our unborn child. Images of my father laughing and playing with me when I was very young were often running through my mind. My parents hadn't been much older than I was now when they'd had me. I didn't know if they had wanted children so early, but they had made the best of it, a loving, close-knit little family. I felt that this was what I wanted after all. Not necessarily right now, but in the not-too-distant future.

I didn't tell Rosie any of this. I didn't want to provoke another harsh reaction from her, so I thought it best to let the matter be for the moment, thinking that we were young enough by far to put off any final decisions until much later, hoping she might change her mind when some time had passed.

There were many subjects neither of us touched upon any more because we were afraid discussing them might lead to more quarrel, more words thrown at each other in a hot temper to destroy the delicate balance we had struggled to establish again between us as the sharpest pangs of mutual disappointment and anger had abated slowly over the days and weeks.

We had never spoken a lot of our feelings or secrets, but the bond between us had never before been so much more physical than anything else - the primal joy of holding her close when we danced, of hearing her sweet voice when she sang, of feeling her mouth on mine in a deep kiss or her nails scratching my back when I slept with her.

There were many times when we clung to each other desperately at night, sealing each other's mouths with kisses to avoid having to talk, making love with distraught passion, falling asleep quickly afterwards, emotionally drained and physically exhausted. At least our bodies were able to give each other what our words couldn't – comfort, warmth, love.

To anyone else, things between Rosie and me appeared to have gone back to normal. Not even Harry or Joan knew what had really happened during Rosie's absence. They were just glad that we had obviously made up and regaled the guests with our musical performances once again.

One day in early autumn, I was surprised by Billy Mulligan and Ted Friars popping into the bar like ghosts from the pasts which I didn't welcome without reservations. I wasn't sure if I appreciated this reminder of happy times gone by. Still it was lovely to raise a few glasses to the good old days and catch up with a bit of village gossip.

Billy was astonished at my musical skills. Rosie and I had been in the midst of a spirited rendition of As I Roved Out when they came in.

"You never told us you could play the piano!" he cried out again when we were sitting at the small table in the corner later. "Just imagine how the girls would have loved to hear you play! Girls love musicians. Almost as much as they love dock workers", he grinned.

"Well, it sure did work on this girl", I said, pulling Rosie, who had just walked over to serve us another round, close to me with a proud smile.

She smiled back and gave me a peck on the cheek, beaming at Ted and Billy as she put the glasses down in front of them.

Billy gave a cheeky little wolf-whistle as she glided over to the next table. "Gorgeous girl you've got there, Mick! Didn't think you had it in you."

"Oh, Billy, don't be rude", Ted chastised, punching him good-naturedly in the arm. "Just because he's not as much of a womanizer as you are. He's a damn handsome fellow."

"'Course he is", Billy said peaceably. "Handsome and a great friend. Just teasin', you know."

"Sure I know", I said, feeling a bit embarrassed that Billy still referred to me as a friend when I hadn't been in touch since I left. I sipped my beer thoughtfully and said, mainly in order to fill the silence, "Been missing you guys."

I realized that it was true. I missed a place I could really call home, and I missed the few real friends I had at the village.

Of course, I knew I couldn't go back. I knew I wouldn't feel at home there any more. But when Ted mentioned that Jem was going to celebrate his eightieth birthday in November, I promised I'd be there as a surprise guest. I felt I owed this to Jem and Martha who had been so lovely with me after Grandma had gone, acting as a kind of ersatz grandparents.

There was a little twinge of guilt when Billy said they were tending my grandparents' grave painstakingly. Jem had planted roses and evergreens on it, and Martha had brought a large bunch of flowers from her garden to mark the anniversary of Grandpa's death.

I was ashamed that this day had passed by me unnoticed. I had feared the reminder of the terrible storm, but by end of August, Rosie had disappeared, and my mind was so occupied with worrying about her that I didn't care much about what date it was.

Billy seemed to sense my uneasiness about the subject and began to talk of something else quickly.

I considered asking about the new residents in my grandparents' house, but I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer. There were quite a few minefields in the conversation with my old friends I didn't dare venture into. Just as it was with Rosie.

Although it had been good to see Ted and Billy again, I was secretly glad when they left.

Was this an integral part of growing up, I wondered, tiptoeing around all kinds of issues you'd have actually liked to speak about for fear someone might use their knowledge about you to hurt you again? Finding yourself at a point where you didn't really trust anyone?

I'd always had a hard time opening up to anyone else than a precious few people, my dad or my grandparents or Eliza. Now there was no one I truly trusted, not Ted, not Billy, not even Rosie – not unconditionally at least. There was always that last tiny bit of concern about her in certain respects. I dealt with it by simply trying to avoid situations that might bring my doubts back to the surface.

Yet I was glad that our love had survived the betrayal and the lies and the fights. It was no longer the sweet infatuation we'd shared during those first enchanted weeks, but something more mature, something that had weathered the storm after all, emerging somewhat damaged but still functioning.

Not long after Ted and Billy's visit, I was again reminded just how thin the ice we moved on really was. It began with the good-natured banter both of us loved so much as we lay in her bed on a cold October night, pleasantly tired after a delightful hour of lovemaking.

Rosie listed all the things she loved about me, my gift for music, my character, my face and eyes and overall handsomeness.

I wasn't too sure about the "handsome" part. I had never thought of myself as particularly good-looking. On the contrary. I considered my looks rather odd. Those eyes of a somewhat mismatched shape - one eyelid much heavier than the other – gave me a strange sleepy expression and made all of my face appear lopsided when I looked at myself in the mirror. The colour of my eyes didn't help matters much. They were of an indefinable green that seemed to change its hue permanently. My head of unruly thick dark curls and prominent nose, combined with my height, made sure I'd stick out of any crowd, but not because I was such a looker, and my cheekbones were so ridiculously pronounced that it looked as if someone was sitting behind me with their knees stuck out.

No, there was little about me in the way of wholesome smooth attractiveness, but obviously that was just what Rosie found alluring. I smiled at her words, a little flattered in spite of myself.

As she spoke, she drew a light finger over the outlines of my face, down the side of my neck and further along my arm. When she had reached the seahorse, she stopped.

"When I met you, I thought there was a big exciting story behind this, something mysterious and wild and exotic, maybe even a little dangerous or shady. I thought you'd been sailing the seven seas for ages." She laughed, a low, throaty, sensual sound. "And then you tell me that there's nothing else behind it but your grandpa and some old fishing boat."

"It's not just some old fishing boat. It was our boat. I told you how much I loved that boat, and how much I loved my grandpa. He was the finest man I ever knew."

"But don't you still find it a bit … funny? I mean, you can do with your body whatever you want, I actually like tattoos, and I don't mind the seahorse, but isn't it a rather silly thing to do, getting a tattoo to remember your grandfather?" She gave a giggle that I thought was quite silly.

"You wouldn't say such a thing if you'd known him, Rosie", I said, displaying a calm I was not feeling at all. "He was the most wonderful person you can imagine. Please try not to make fun of this." I knew I couldn't possibly find the words to make clear to her that the idea might have been born of drunken exuberance in the first place, but it hadn't been an act of childish hero worship. I carried the symbol of the man who had always believed in me, who had encouraged me to go my own way, with loving pride.

"What would you think worthy of getting a tattoo for?" I asked pointedly.

"A girlfriend, for example", was her prompt reply, followed by a snippy, "Think about it."

I groaned and bit back any comment. She had slipped from our peaceful intimacy right into that huffy mood that meant she'd be miffed at anything I said or did except agree with her, so I thought it wiser to keep my mouth shut instead of telling her the truth, that I was not planning to get another tattoo.

She was miffed anyway, rolling over, away from me, wrapping the covers firmly around herself so there wasn't much left for me and switching off the bedside lamp.

"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, now a bit chagrined myself.

"'Course not", she growled, grudgingly freeing up a bit of linen. It wasn't quite enough to cover me, so I inched a little closer. She still kept her back turned on me. Feeling rejected, I refrained from snuggling up to her as I usually did and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, grimacing in exasperation, wondering what on earth I had done wrong now.

I didn't get an answer before the next day. She simply fell asleep while I stayed awake for a long time, trying not to fall off the edge of the bed and struggling to keep myself warm.

I must have gone to sleep at some point because I woke up after what felt like just a few minutes with icy feet and a crick in my neck. A weak wintry light came through the small window, and the patter of rain on the roof was the only sound I heard apart from Rosie's quiet regular breathing. I assumed she was still slumbering, but when I turned over on my side to look at her, she opened her eyes and gave me a lazy smile. Last night's irritation seemed forgotten.

Relieved that the day seemed to be off for a much better start than I'd expected, I planted a tender kiss on her cheekbone.

She reached up and ruffled my hair. "I guess I've got to apologize for last night", she said to my surprise. She hardly ever said sorry for anything. "I just thought it would be so romantic if you …"

"Listen, Rosie, I'm not planning to get another tattoo for anyone. It's pretty painful, and in fact I don't even think this one was a particularly good idea, but now it's there anyway."

She pouted a little but didn't insist.

At least not for the moment.

She did bring the subject up again and again over the next couple of weeks, sometimes in a joking mood, sometimes accusingly along the lines of "If you really loved me, you would …" I was not at all convinced that true love needed this kind of "proof", but in the end I went to see if Nick was still working in his dingy little studio.

I was amazed that I managed to find my way there, considering that I'd been pretty plastered last time, and I was amazed that he remembered me and greeted me like an old acquaintance, inquiring with a big belly laugh where I had left my friend with the mermaid on his chest.

He laughed again when I told him with a forced grin that I was back for another tattoo to please my girlfriend. "You sure she's worth it?" he asked and winked at me. "What is it you want?"

I didn't answer his first question and chose a little anchor, the traditional symbol of faith, to show I was serious about us, and to allude to Rosie's silly romantic fantasies about my presumed sailor's adventures.

I didn't tell her right away when I saw her the same evening at the bar, leading her to believe I had arrived late because of working overtime. I'd been careful to pick a dark shirt that wouldn't let anything shine through.

Only when she began to undress me that night, she made her discovery. Her eyes grew wide as she slowly pulled my shirt off my shoulders. "No!" she breathed in surprise. "You really did it! Can I … can I touch it?"

"If you're careful. It's still pretty tender." In fact, it felt like my skin was aflame.

She circled the image on my deltoid with her forefinger and smiled. "What does it mean?"

"What do you think?"

"Oh, please, not one of your trick questions."

"It's not a trick question. Come on, give it a guess."

"It means this sailor has dropped anchor here with me and plans some extended shore leave?" She looked up at me with a perky grin.

"You've nailed it, sailor's bride", I grinned back and kissed her. The admiration and joy in her eyes were more than worth overcoming my reluctance and bearing the momentary pain. Maybe sometimes this kind of visible token of love did work wonders after all.

Rosie was so enchanted that I had to implore her not to show off about "her" tattoo to anyone who would listen. I didn't mind Harry and Joan to know, but I drew the line when I caught her almost telling Bella and some of the regulars. I knew what she was about to say and sharply shook my head. Thankfully, she understood and changed the subject before I found myself parading about the bar shirtless to have the anchor admired.

Anyway, I was quite proud that I'd made her so happy. Things were as good as normal between us now. Finally. She didn't even make a fuss when I let slip a reference to marriage and kids in a few years' time. Obviously, the crisis was truly over.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, Ted came down in his car to pick me up for Jem's birthday. Rosie hadn't wanted to come along, saying she didn't know anyone there and if I'd mind going alone. I'd have loved to introduce her to Jem and Martha, but understood that it wouldn't be too exciting for her to sit by and listen to me chat about some childhood anecdotes or gossip about people she'd never heard of.

This was mostly what we did. Jem hadn't wanted a large celebration, just a jolly little round of family and old friends and their offspring. So it was just Jem and Martha, their niece Emily and her husband and daughter, Billy and his mother and Eileen, Ted and I. Ted and Billy had let Martha in on their plans to bring me along, but they had not breathed a word to Jem who was positively speechless when I showed up on his doorstep.

"Dear God, Mick, is it really you? Now if that's not the best birthday present I could ask for!"

It was a lovely day. Eileen's little girls played merrily with Emily's daughter on the kitchen floor while we caught up with each others' lives, talking until Jem looked like he was going to fall asleep in his chair.

I bade them goodbye with a somewhat heavy heart, wondering when I'd see them next, then left with Ted to spend the night on his sofa before he'd drive me back into Portland on Sunday afternoon.

I met Rosie at the bar for our usual early supper before opening hours. She greeted me with a dazzling smile and a passionate kiss and said she'd been missing me while I was away.

"I've missed you, too", I said. "We'll make up for it later tonight." I winked at her mischievously.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" she asked, eyes sparkling.

"It's whatever you make it", I replied, raising a quizzical eyebrow, and she laughed.

When I had finished eating, I walked over to the piano. I liked to play a bit to warm up before the crowd arrived. As I was halfway through a simple Bach prelude, someone gave me a shove from behind, and a familiar voice scoffed, "Hey, Mozart!"

I didn't need to turn around to see who that nasal twang belonged to. Morris Beauchamp. He was a regular guest, a few years older than me, and there was not much love lost between us. I knew that Rosie had had a brief fling with him before she'd been with Jeff, but that wasn't the only reason I disliked him. He was a big brutish figure with a flat boxer's nose and bristly fair hair who made his snide remarks at and about everyone and everything, a textbook example of the dumb football player. I couldn't fathom what Rosie had seen in him. Maybe his exceptionally blue eyes had won her over for a while before she had noticed what a jerk he was.

I simply ignored his habitual greeting, as always, playing on unfazed.

A while later, I was leaning against the side of the piano for a short break, sipping a drink and nursing a cigarette while I watched Rosie serve the table closest to me. It was Morris's.

Rosie seemed to be joking with him when suddenly his hand went to the neckline of her dress. She swatted it away, but he reached for her again. I set my glass down hard on the top of the piano and threw my cigarette into the beer. With two long strides, I was over by the idiot's table and told him to keep his paws to himself.

"You can't forbid me to touch my girl, Mozart!" he said brazenly.

"She's not yours any more, Beauchamp. Hasn't been for a long time."

He smirked smugly. "She was very much mine last night, you know!"

"In your dreams!" I hissed. "She'd never let a brainless creature like you touch her, and if you ever do as much as look at her the wrong way, I'm going to make you feel very, very sorry."

"Oooh, I'm so scared! Little Mozart is threatening me!" Morris sneered at me as he got up, standing very straight to appear as tall as possible.

He seemed to be miffed to find I wasn't actually much shorter than him, only slimmer. "Try anything, and I'm gonna break your pretty piano man fingers before you know it."

With astonishing swiftness, he grabbed my hand and twisted my fingers backward until I expected the bones to snap at any moment. I wanted to scream in pain but wasn't ready to grant him this triumph, so I gritted my teeth and stared mutely and steadfastly into his eyes, hoping to unnerve him.

He didn't let go, just stared back at me.

When the torture became unbearable, I gave a tormented moan and quickly swung up my leg to knee him in the groin. He doubled over, groaning and cursing me fiercely.

"You liar", I growled, rubbing my maltreated hand. "You filthy slandering liar."

He looked up at me, bloodshot eyes glinting slyly, and he smirked again despite his obvious pain. "I'm not lying, Mozart. Ask her. The little bitch enjoyed it every bit as much as I did. And boy, she's a tigress!" He gave a mocking theatrical roar and laughed derisively. "But I'm sure you know that yourself."

A veil of angry scarlet obscured my vision. Before I could think, my open palm was in his face, leaving red marks on both of his cheeks. He glared at me for a moment while all the other people in the room seemed to hold their breaths, then his fist struck my left cheekbone with the destructive force of a sledge hammer.

I staggered backwards and slipped on a puddle of spilled beer on the tiled floor, landing hard on my back, winded, panting.

His large figure loomed over me immediately, and I shot up again, a little dizzy but nevertheless landing a well-placed punch in his grinning face. Oh, how I longed to wipe that self-congratulatory grin off his visage.

Next thing I knew was an ominous flash of metal, a loud joint gasp from the crowd, and I threw myself aside instinctively, but not quite fast enough. A sharp pain cut through my side and up across my arm.

The bastard had had the nerve to draw a knife.

I saw him raise his arm once more and tried to dive for safety under the nearest table, certain he was ready to kill me, but I missed my aim and hit my forehead hard against the sharp edge of the wooden tabletop.

A high-pitched scream that might or might not have come from Rosie was the last thing I heard before my world went black.

I had no idea how much time had passed when I came around.

I tried to open my eyes and found that I couldn't bring my left eyelid to move. Had that asshole taken my eye out with his damned blade?

I panicked and hastily touched my cheek and eyelid. My fingers came away wet and sticky, scaring me even more.

Finally my eye did open a crack, but the tissue around it and the upper half of my cheek were very tender and seemed to have been swelling up very fast. I tasted the salty tang of blood and gingerly ran the tip of my tongue over my lips to check for further damage. No split lip at least. Feeling rather dizzy, I closed my eyes again.

Now someone was beside me, putting a hand on my forehead and saying in a soothing voice, "Keep calm, Mick. He's gone, and you'll be fine. It's just a black eye and a few cuts and bruises. You did hit your head quite hard on that table, though."

Joan.

"Now let's get you cleaned up. You're all bloody. You were pretty lucky that he didn't plunge that knife right into your heart. Good that you jumped aside twice."

I made to sit up, but she told me not to. "The doctor's going to be here any minute. Rosie's gone to get him. Don't move until then." I noticed that someone had shoved a rolled-up jacket under my head to make a pillow. Joan bent over me and wiped the blood off my face with a wet cloth.

I looked down my front and saw my second-best shirt hanging in bloodied tatters. Morris's knife had slashed through the left sleeve and diagonally across the left side and front. I touched my chest and was glad to find the blood had already begun to dry. The cut couldn't be too deep then.

It was strangely quiet, and I wanted to look around, but when I tried to turn my head, it made me feel quite sick. I did see that the bar was as good as empty.

Joan noticed my questioning look and said, "We sent them all home while you were out cold. We're closed for tonight. Police took Morris with them. Guess he'll need a doctor, too. Bella thumped him over the head with one of those German beer steins."

I couldn't help grinning faintly at that particular detail. Scrawny Bella knocking out that big brute with one of those massive earthenware tankards that usually sat decoratively on a wall shelf must have been quite a sight.

Rosie arrived with the neighbourhood doctor, a young man with sagging shoulders and tired, friendly eyes. He stitched up my eyebrow, took care of the cuts in my side and arm, which he pronounced shallow and harmless, and prescribed a few days of bed rest for my presumed concussion.

Rosie was kneeling by my other side meanwhile. She had made to hold my hand but I had asked her not to. I couldn't bear her touch now that I knew with cruel clarity that Morris's insinuations had not just been a lie to torment me.

During the next days, I buried myself in my room. I couldn't do much else than sleep anyway. Even reading was hardly possible with my persistent headache and one eye half closed.

Joan looked in on me regularly, bringing me food I could barely keep down. Otherwise, I didn't want to see anyone. What was more, I didn't want anyone to see me.

I avoided looking into the mirror and didn't even shave for a week. The left half of my face felt so rough and bruised that I didn't need visual proof to know it was a frightful sight.

Mostly, I lay on my bed, curtains drawn, brooding. I sadly remembered Bella's warning about Rosie. I had not believed her at the time, and I didn't wish to believe her now. It was too painful to think that she might have been right from the beginning. Had there been other men beside Morris Beauchamp, and had this been going on all the time we'd been together?

I couldn't believe that she should have been so devious and cunning. My Rosie. My lovely, pretty singer. The girl I'd thought could be my wife one day after all. Should I have been so utterly, terribly wrong in loving her?

On the fifth day of my confinement, there was a timid knock on the door. I didn't answer. I knew it wasn't Joan because she always rapped on the doorframe in a certain rhythm so I'd know it was her.

Another knock, and a thin female voice calling my name. Rosie.

I remained silent.

"Mick? Mick! I know you're there. Please open!"

"No!" I shouted. "Go away from me please!"

"I want to … I need to see you, Mick."

"Why?" I asked, sitting up slowly against my own will.

"Mick, please let me see you. At least this once!" she pleaded.

"Fine, if you must. Door's open." I sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed a wrinkled shirt off the floor and threw it on over my undershirt to maintain a semblance of normalcy. She needn't know I was spending my days lounging on the bed in my pajamas, only putting on a pair of trousers for the sake of decency when Joan came.

I barely looked up when she entered, only turned towards her slowly when she addressed me. I saw her flinch at the sight of my smashed face.

"I'm so terribly sorry", she began. "I …"

I cut her off harshly. "You obviously didn't get me quite right", I said. "I was serious when I told you I needed to be able to trust you. There's nothing to discuss now. I don't want to hear your explanations, no matter if they are true or not. I won't have you lie to me again and again and again. As soon as this isn't looking quite as dreadful any more …" - I pointed at my ravaged face – "I'm off to find a job on a ship or something. Don't go looking for me."

She stared at me in horror. "Mick, no! I promise it will never happen again."

"So it did happen after all."

"It … I will …"

"I wouldn't wrap a dead dog in your promises now, Rosie. I'm sorry it has to end like this, but end it must. This is very much over now. You've had your second chance and you screwed it up. I can't live with never knowing if you're being honest with me or not."

She clapped both hands to her mouth and began to cry hard.

"You better go now", I said, sounding as empty and drained as I felt.

She nodded silently and left.

She did not come again.

When the bruise in my face had faded to a greenish-yellow tinge and the young doctor had been back to remove the stitches, when I was no longer looking as if I had an insalubrious habit of picking fights in bars or was prone to strange accidents, I tried to cover the red slash through my eyebrow with my hair and walked down to the port in search of a ship that would take me on.

I was lucky. There was a cargo ship called Victory which was due to leave for Europe in a few days, and they needed replacement for a sailor who had gone AWOL during shore leave.

So I packed my bags one cold morning and went down to the bar to say goodbye.

Harry slapped me on the shoulder with his avuncular smile and said regretfully, "What a shame it's ended like this. You were such a handsome couple, you and that silly girl. And where on earth am I going to find another piano man like you? Now it's deaf old Isaac again."

I shrugged apologetically and tried to smile. "Thanks for everything, Harry. Keep the piano tuned. And thank you, too, Joan."

She sniffled and hugged me tightly to her ample bosom, wiping a tear from her eye as she said, "Wish you'd stayed and she had left. All the best for you, son. Take care, and don't forget all about us."

I certainly wouldn't forget motherly Joan who had always saved the best bites for Rosie and me, nor Harry and his mischievously friendly smile that flashed so readily on his weathered face with the thin red veins along the cheeks and nose that betrayed his penchant for beer and brandy.

I picked up my small suitcase, slung my knapsack over my shoulder and walked off quickly down towards the harbour where the Victory lay.

Off towards a future that was more uncertain than ever.

I didn't mind. I didn't believe in certainty any longer anyway.

As I wrote in the introduction, this song inspired the Rosie episodes. Actually, it made me think of Mick the very first moment I heard it, and the more often I listened, the more of Mick and Rosie's story emerged.

Vaya Con Dios - Far Gone Now

Don't go looking for him, lady,
Don't go looking for him now
He'll be sailing 'cross the ocean
By the time you turn around
All he carries is his pride,
He has nothing to his name
What he's leaving you behind
Is the burden of the blame

Don't go looking for him, lady
He's far gone now

Don't go looking for him, lady,
Don't go looking for him now
He's somewhere across the border
In some lonely little town
A tattoo on his arm
Is all that will remain
Of a lady with no heart
Playing stupid little games

Don't go looking for him, lady,
He's far gone now

And now you're gazing at the moon
Humming melancholic lines
Burning candles in your room
As if to see the light

Don't go looking for him, lady,
Don't go looking for him now
He'll be over the horizon
By the time you come around
You can stare out at the sky,
Building castles in the air
He won't be coming back this time
There'll be no answers to your prayers

Don't go looking for him, lady,
He's far gone now