This was written at a time when I was obsessed with the ideal of the three-minute pop song. If you can’t say what you need to say in 180 seconds or less, you’re doing something wrong, the argument goes. Like any dogma, it’s pretty inane if taken to extremes but if you’ve just got one simple idea to convey (and most pop songs do) it’s an effective safeguard against stretching that one idea too thin. I think I’d also been listening to a lot of Tommy James and the Shondells and other 1960s garage rock, hence the 12-string guitar riff.
Tell me why I’m staring out the window
I forgot what I got up to do
Well she won’t back till Sunday
And Sunday can’t come too soon
But then I miss her every time she leaves the room
I forgot what I got up to do
Well she won’t back till Sunday
And Sunday can’t come too soon
But then I miss her every time she leaves the room
Tell me why the time goes by so slowly
An hour’s a day’s a week’s a year to me
Well I miss her when she’s gone so long
I toss and turn the whole night through
But then I miss her every time she leaves the room
Tell me why I’m staring out the window
I don’t know just what I’m coming to
I can’t tell you why I love her
Only that I do
And that I miss her every time she leaves the room
