Wandering lonely through the snow streets of New York,
I stumbled on a thrift store that sold postcards by the yard.
I bought a mile and shipped them home so I could read
Ten thousand ten word tragedies, the lives these strangers lead,
To remind myself the things I need.

Huddled homebound in my place in Holloway,
I wondered if you even heard those songs I used to play.
I wrote them as a gift for you, and in return
You gave a pair of hand-knit mittens, to keep my fingers warm,
So I could play more ignored love songs.

I once wrote you love songs, you never fell in love.
We used to fit like mittens, but never like gloves.
I once wrote you postcards, but you never wrote back.
You promised me you would and I'm still waiting for that.

You left me feeling like we'd never really been in love.
Don't want to fit like mittens, I want to fit like gloves.