It’s not the moon that brings the Sunday night blues,
It’s not the stars that bare these old scars.
Keep me from falling asleep, ‘cause I don’t know what comes after,
And keep the light on so I see, for I fear the night might swallow me.

Oh baby, don’t leave my sight.
Speak softly, love, to me all night.
And if the stars go out and heavy rain clouds bellow,
Hold me tight and sing to me.
From this Sunday night blues, is the madness I long to be free,
But I wouldn’t mind it so much only if you’d tell me that you love me too.

Wherever you go, won’t you take me there too?
I get so lonely the darkness calls on me.
Familiar faces disappear and I’m left all on my own.
And wherever I may go, my past catches up. It never slows.

Oh honey, won’t you abide?
Won’t you pardon my fool’s delight?
It’s been so long since I haven’t been drowning
‘Cause of the aching pain in my heart.
All I need is your love to quell this wretched Sunday night blues,
But oh, I know the fantasy of your tender touch is always too good to be true.

Still, won’t you at least blow me a goodnight kiss even if you don’t love me too?

Image created in OpenAI Dall.E

Note: This song was written to be a part of a short story called “Conversations With a Cat” and sung to a jazz tune. The song was cut some time in my many rounds of edit, and the title of the story was changed to “Better Place” published here in June, 2021, one of the first pieces I put up on this site.

The original story, when it was still “Conversations with a Cat,” had much less of a story and much more of a personal exploration. It was written around the time I was struggling with depression, and the story was one of the first times I used writing as a form of therapy. In the story, the narrator imagines, as he is wont to do, a woman singing this song to him in a shady speakeasy. It was just a cool setting in my mind when I wrote it, and I felt it illustrates the fantasy element effectively, but now I am discovering that there maybe more subtle elements and fictionalizations of my own personal emotions at the time—the run down building the speakeasy was located in could represent my own mental state; the smoke-filled, whiskey-scented barroom could be a wordy materialization of the recreational vices and diversions I filled myself with; and, of course, the woman of fantasy, the ideal world.

The song, sung by a heartbroken, lovelorn woman, is plain enough in its meaning. It’s not good songwriting by any stretch of the imagination, but my shortcomings in that regard perfectly aligns with the narrative, as the narrator who imagined the lyrics is supposed to be just an everyman with a passing interest at most in jazz and songwriting.

I thought I’d moved on from this song, thought I’d moved on from the story as a whole, but there are just some nights, some Tuesday nights, when I feel the heaviness of the Sunday night blues.


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