Woken up, by the sad sound
of mist, against the window.
Opening eyes to hear it rain upon the ground
as if open eyes would change the feeling that I've drowned
in the mist against the window.

I see him now and then, and here and there
when there’s mist against the window.
He tells me just to stay in bed, and sleep without a care,
and let this day just pass me by, and wait for a day more fair,
without mist against the window.

Sometimes he just sits and stares, a lazy type of sprawl,
when there’s mist against the window.
Then he stands, and leaves, walks down the hall,
It wasn't really there at all,
The mist against my window.
It wasn't really there at all.