Chip sat blankly at the piano, his hands resting on the keys. Finally, he began to play and sing . . .
"You're
always sorry,
You're always grateful,
You're always
wondering
What might have been—
Then she walks in.
And
still you're sorry,
And still you're grateful,
And still you
wonder
And still you doubt—
And she goes out.
Everything's
different, nothing's changed.
Only maybe slightly
rearranged.
You're sorry—grateful,
Regretful—happy.
Why
look for answers
When none occur?
You always are what you
always were,
Which has nothing to do with, all to do with
her.
You're always sorry,
You're always grateful,
You
hold her, thinking:
'I'm not alone.'
You're still
alone.
You don't live for her,
You do live with her,
You're
scared she's starting
To drift away,
And scared she'll
stay.
Good things get better, bad get worse.
Wait, I think
I meant that in reverse.
You're sorry—grateful,
Regretful—happy.
Why look for answers
When none
occur?
You'll always be what you always were,
Which has
nothing to do with, all to do with her.
Nothing to do with, all to do with her."
At the conclusion of his song, he propped his head on his hands and stared pensively through the window at the moonlight gleaming off of the snow.
A lone figure lurked in the shadows of the doorway, heart yearning, but remaining silent for the time being.
Fin.