In April- You're closer to the sun in a window seat. 
Eight hundred k's until we meet and I'll meet you 
standing still. A pilot standing by must have caught your 
eye. That jet-lagger he's in disguise he's one of the 
million. This clock's gathering dust and I'm not 
impressed. Fly away to my address and my turbulent gut. I 
patiently give up as the final call's announced over the 
terminal and I curse back at the sun. I'm breathing fuel, 
its chemicals could start a fire and burn until I sight 
your arrival but I probably never will. You promised 
you'd be on that flight, least of all you said you'd 
write. I guess you couldn't find the time and probably 
never will. I'm sorry if your dreams didn't come true. 
I'm sorry they were sure you would board. I'm sorry that 
of a million passengers not one was you.