O, the colors in your eyes.

It's not that I
wanted to take my time,
but beneath the press
I remained a mess.

O, the colors in your eyes.

Sunday mornings,
and this fifth too shall pass.
How I wish that I
could sleep in your sigh.

O, the colors in your eyes.

Sunday mornings,
we pass each other by
as we cross the bridge,
your gaze always fixed.

O, the colors in your eyes.

But I can't reach--
I cannot reach you here
nor there, like a ghost.
Once, you felt so close.

O, those colors in your eyes.

I see into their disguise,
and how they fix on mine,
coffee-colored crime.

Sunday morning,
don't pass me by,
don't pass me by.

O, I feel your demise.