Tell Me On A Sunday

Don't write a letter when you want to leave
Don't call me at 3 AM from a friend's apartment
I'd like to choose how I hear the news
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please

Let me down easy
No big song and dance
No long faces, no long looks
No deep conversation
I know the way we should spend that day
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees
Tell me on a Sunday please

Don't want to know who's to blame
It won't help knowing
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going

Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze
Tell me on a Sunday please

Don't run off in the pouring rain
Don't call me as they call your plane
Take the hurt out of all the pain
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please

(From "Song & Dance", music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, lyrics by Don Black)

I first listened to the song during my teenage years when goodbyes were limitedly uttered to given away puppies, moving out friends, leaving grandparents, or school holidays. I completely forgot this beautiful song had long offered me a less hurtful way to hear the word 'goodbye': on a Sunday where everyone tends to be relax, in a park where the trees console the watery eyes while the blowing winds will quickly dry any teardrops, at a zoo or a circus to laugh away the pains.

But I didn't listen well to the song, as for a teenager, little did I know that when the trembling lips declared 'goodbye', the throbbing pain pronounced 'welcome' and it promised not to say goodbye.