Got your letter in the P.O. box this morning.
There was a dotted line where I was supposed to sign,
and there's a book that you got me for my birthday on
the coffee table,
and it looks too good there for me to move,
I guess now that I'm just stuck with it,
and I'll think of you every time
that I pass by.

Well, everybody's bound by their possessions,
but, as for me, it feels a bit more like "trapped,"
and there's a sofa we picked out together, it feels like forever
ago now,
and it's just too new for me to go and chuck it,
I guess I'll just have to test my luck and
dream of you every time
I steal a nap.

You know, I spent a good hour just reading that awful letter -
staring at that goddamn dotted line,
and there's a brand new coat of paint in this kitchen, my darling,
my dear,
and I can't change it while the coat's still wet,
and besides it's the color you liked best,
even though I can hardly stand
to sit in here.

You know, it feels like it's rained every day since I got your letter.
In fact, I've barely ventured out of bed,
and there's a spread of Italian linens we bought on vacation
years ago,
and they're just too fine for me to sell,
and in the closet is your dressing gown,
oh I'm living in a burning hell,
ever since you
left town, Suzie.
Where'd you go running this time?
No, I can't get you off my mind,
and I'll never sign that dotted line.