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Matt Nathanson - Sunday New York Times

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Leaves and the rain falling outside.
Taxi waited in the street.
Gave you my keys, told you I'd try
But we both knew better didn't we?
I made my way to JFK in world record time,
Hoping I would miss the flight.
 
You and I were fighting sleep.
Beautiful wasted promises we promised to keep,
At least 'til we said goodbye.
Sometimes you're still mine
Between the lines of the Sunday New York Times.
 
You were the saint, I was the liar,
At least that's how I remember it.
Left all our dreams, all our desires
On the steps of your apartment.
The Brooklyn bridge, your olive skin
Framed in black and white.
I miss how simple love could be.
 
When you and I were fighting sleep.
Beautiful wasted promises we promised to keep,
At least 'til we said goodbye.
Sometimes you're still mine
Between the lines of the Sunday New York Times
 
Running wild down St. Marks,
Raw and breathless in your arms.
Jumping trains to the park,
When the world was ours.
 
When you and I were fighting sleep.
Under the blankets promises we promised to keep,
At least 'til we said goodbye.
Sometimes you're still mine
Between the lines of the Sunday New York Times
 
Перевод
 
На улице падают листья и дождь.
Такси ждало на улице.
Отдал тебе ключи, сказал, что попробую
Но мы оба знали лучше, не так ли?
Я добрался до аэропорта Кеннеди за рекордное для мира время
Надеясь, что опоздаю на рейс.
 
Мы с тобой боролись со сном.
Прекрасные напрасные обещания, которые мы обещали сдержать,
По крайней мере ' пока мы не попрощались.
Иногда ты все еще моя
Между строк Sunday New York Times.
 
Ты был святым, я был лжецом,
По крайней мере, так Я помню это.
Оставил все наши мечты, все наши желания
На ступеньках твоей квартиры.
Бруклинский мост, твоя оливковая кожа
В черно-белой рамке.
Я скучаю по тому, как простая любовь могла бы быть.
 
Когда мы с тобой боролись со сном.
Прекрасные напрасные обещания, которые мы обещали сдержать,
По крайней мере, пока мы не попрощались.
Иногда ты все еще моя
Между строк воскресной газеты «Нью-Йорк Таймс»
 
Безумно бегу по Сент-Маркс,
Сырой и задыхающийся в твоих руках.
Прыгая на поезде в парк,
Когда мир был нашим.
 
Когда мы с тобой боролись со сном.
Под одеялами мы обещали сдержать обещания,
По крайней мере, пока мы не попрощались.
Иногда ты все еще моя
Между строк воскресной газеты New York Times
 
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