The Day Before You Came - Steven Wilson

Must have left my house at eight, because I always do.

My train, I’m certain, left the station just when it was due.

I must have read the morning paper going into town,

and having gotten through the editorial, no doubt I must have frowned.

I must have made my desk around a quarter after nine,

with letters to be read, and heaps of papers waiting to be signed.

I must have gone to lunch at half past twelve or so,

the usual place, the usual bunch.

And still, on top of this, I’m pretty sure it must have rained.

The day before you came.

I must have lit my seventh cigarette at half past two.

And at the time I never even noticed I was blue.

I must have kept on dragging through the business of the day

without really knowing anything, I hid a part of me away.

At five I must have left, there’s no exception to the rule,

a matter of routine, I’ve done it ever since I finished school.

The train back home again,

undoubtedly I must have read the evening paper then.

Oh yes, I’m sure my life was well within its usual frame.

The day before you came.

Must have opened my front door at eight o’clock or so,

and stopped along the way to buy some Chinese food to go.

I’m sure I had my dinner watching something on TV.

There’s not, I think, a single episode of Dallas that I didn’t see.1

I must have gone to bed around a quarter after ten.

I need a lot of sleep, and so I like to be in bed by then.

I must have read a while;

the latest one by Marilyn French or something in that style2

It’s funny, but I had no sense of living without aim.

The day before you came.

And turning out the light,

I must have yawned and cuddled up for yet another night.

And rattling on the roof I must have heard the sound of rain.

The day before you came.