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 my 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 are 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 dreams 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?