Maybe just my imagination
My eyes wanders through the familiar room and lands where it always does.
Brimming with untold stories, of lovers now miles apart.
Dying to tell the tale, to whomever cared to listen.
Maybe it doesn't really matter, cause it seems now like the love never existed.
Maybe it's the effect of the alcohol, or I'm just crazy and making up stories.
But I'm almost sure I'm not.
Cause it was our table, where we confessed love that meant everything to us,
In our favorite place of this coffee shop in Paris.