He was a songwriter, writing songs about a girl.
She was a ghostwriter, lying to the world.

And in deep anticipation,
on the day that she had written
and by her own admission she'd
be picked up, kissed, and twirled.

He was a fearful boy, watchful of the earth, worried that it'd might split apart and he wouldn't hear it first.
And he'd be caught in some position, like a broken old physician, and worst of all he feared that it would hurt.

He's pouring his heart out, is nothing gonna come of that? So when can he finally say, at last, at last, at last, at last,
oh i thought you'd never ask.

Oh, he's sending every letter, she cant love them all.
Dated them and numbered them, and then hid them down below.

She would always keep them, once a year she'd read them, each time she'd be thinking, somehow, he must know.

She's pouring her heart out, is nothing gonna come of that? So when can she finally say, at last, at last, at last, at last, oh i thought you'd never ask.

Outside of his apartment, and it was blanketed in mist, she stood looking up at his life and thinking what if meant.
and in the choosing their briefing were wishing he was thinking he would suppose it way too late.

They're pouring their hearts out, is nothing gonna come of that? So when can they finally say, at last, at last, at last, at last, oh I thought you'd never

At last, at last, at last, at last,
Oh I thought youd never ask.