Somebody elses' record collection

Whiling away
The moments that make up a dull day
Falling slowly in love with each one
Sipping the coffee
Whose steam seems to chase me away now
Im wondering if my winter cold
Is really here or not at all
Strange that Mondays
Never seem to come round here
We are stuck in a December rut
Of eternal Sundays and only us.
Inside the damp
Seems to seep in from outside
The walls refuse to keep us warm
And the blind we bought wont even shut

Out there the sky is yellow
And the grass is grey
So close our eyes, and turn away
And curse the blind
For what it fails to hide
Turn my eyes instead towards our home
Where you read stories
And we make love
And our record player turns and turns.
The rooms are musty and the rugs not ours
The fridge seems to hold only pineapples and mould
But all the while we dance and talk
And share our winter cold.
Coffee and cigarettes
Stain the pile of breakfast papers
You frown over them with sleepy eyes
And pause to remind me
That after all we are all only ordinary men.
We pour over another record sleeve
And brush away the toast crumbs
Speak between the coughing fits
Of lives I've had and
Watch you plan the ones to come
Wrapped in a dressing gown
I shrank in the wash once
With golden stubble and your smell of skin
We wait for evening turn to light
And fall in bed just in time.

Sting of Monday sees a splash of tears
You left me huddled under eiderdown
You muttered something about windows
Left open in your sleep
And how you were sure Id understand.
So now my week has started
And I am overwhelmed;
So many coffee cups to clean
So many records needing sleeves.
And after all the cleaning up is done
When the flat no longer tells of the times it held
I will forget about our Sundays until tomorrow.