I swear I don't remember the way I used to kissed you,
or the way that your palm felt, pressed into mine.
Memory's a fickle thing and a cruel mistress, too;

what's not lost with the years is now drowned in the wine.

But the thing that I recall, most of all, are


White lilies in your garden, clutching for the sky;
white lilies, that you grew.

I catch that look sometimes, burning from across the room.
I know, baby. I miss you too.


I swear I can't even picture your face in my mind
when I find myself thinking 'bout the times that we had.
I leave my sorrow now, like you left me behind,

and I step into tomorrow, it can't be all that bad.

But the thing that I remember, a cold November and


White lilies in your garden, clutching for the sky;
white lilies, that you grew.

I catch that look sometimes, burning from across the room.
I know, baby. I miss you too.