You look at me dead in the eye
either with a frown or with a smile 

I'm wondering what happened again 
Which words of his will I hear again? 

Nearly, every Sunday night goes like this 
You're flabbergasted with his kiss 

Or something you have yet to receive 
I'd love to know what it is 

You dream of summers with him 
horror nights where he holds you tight 

You call me when I'm miles away 
And won't care about a thing I say 

Night falls and your voice goes on 
As I drink my third drink pondering 

"Is this friendship?
Or am I an awfully good interviewer?" 

Sunday strikes, and I have to put my circus clothes again 

Ready to marvel over the bare minimum of friendship 

I no longer have words. 

I'm just your Echo.