Under the Floodlights

shoegaze, dream pop, ambient rock, post-rock, electronic, dance, soundtrack

UNDER THE FLOODLIGHTS

Friday night outside the football ground  
Floodlights already coming on  
You were by the turnstiles, pint in your hand  
Talking to someone I didn’t know

I nearly walked straight past you there  
Five years gone and shorter hair  
You looked up, stared for a second or two  
Then said, “Bloody hell. Is that you?”

We were twenty-one when we left this place  
Never much good at saying things straight

We were young under the floodlights  
Standing too close, pretending it was fine  
You went to London, I went north  
We lost touch somewhere after that

Now here we are with the same old crowd  
Singing songs we used to shout  
Five years gone, and just like that  
I looked across  
and you looked back

We missed the first goal talking downstairs  
Plastic cups and freezing air  
You said you’d moved back late last year  
I said, “Yeah, someone mentioned you were here.”

You asked if I was seeing anyone  
I laughed and said, “Not really, no.”  
Then half the stand started on the ref  
And you looked at me like you used to

Twenty-eight and standing there  
Still not knowing what to do with our hands

We were young under the floodlights  
Standing too close, pretending it was fine  
You went to London, I went north  
We lost touch somewhere after that

Now here we are with the same old crowd  
Singing songs we used to shout  
Five years gone, and just like that  
I looked across  
And you looked back

At half-time you said, “Do you remember  
That walk home, freezing, that December?”  
I said, “Course I do.”  
You said, “All of it?”

I looked at you.  
You looked away.  
Then you laughed and said,  
“Yeah. Anyway.”  
(anyway)

We were young under the floodlights  
Too scared then to say it right  
You went your way, I went mine  
Turns out that’s just how it went

Now everybody’s heading out  
Turnstiles clicking, thinning crowd  
You said, “Last train’s quarter to two.”  
I said, “I’m not getting it. Are you?”

Friday night, floodlights going down  
Cold concrete, empty ground  
Someone sweeping underneath the stand

Your hand brushed mine  
And stayed there

Neither of us said anything.

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UNDER THE FLOODLIGHTS Friday night outside the football ground Floodlights already coming on You were by the turnstiles, pint in your hand Talking to someone I didn’t know I nearly walked straight past you there Five years gone and shorter hair You looked up, stared for a second or two Then said, “Bloody hell. Is that you?” We were twenty-one when we left this place Never much good at saying things straight We were young under the floodlights Standing too close, pretending it was fine You went to London, I went north We lost touch somewhere after that Now here we are with the same old crowd Singing songs we used to shout Five years gone, and just like that I looked across and you looked back We missed the first goal talking downstairs Plastic cups and freezing air You said you’d moved back late last year I said, “Yeah, someone mentioned you were here.” You asked if I was seeing anyone I laughed and said, “Not really, no.” Then half the stand started on the ref And you looked at me like you used to Twenty-eight and standing there Still not knowing what to do with our hands We were young under the floodlights Standing too close, pretending it was fine You went to London, I went north We lost touch somewhere after that Now here we are with the same old crowd Singing songs we used to shout Five years gone, and just like that I looked across And you looked back At half-time you said, “Do you remember That walk home, freezing, that December?” I said, “Course I do.” You said, “All of it?” I looked at you. You looked away. Then you laughed and said, “Yeah. Anyway.” (anyway) We were young under the floodlights Too scared then to say it right You went your way, I went mine Turns out that’s just how it went Now everybody’s heading out Turnstiles clicking, thinning crowd You said, “Last train’s quarter to two.” I said, “I’m not getting it. Are you?” Friday night, floodlights going down Cold concrete, empty ground Someone sweeping underneath the stand Your hand brushed mine And stayed there Neither of us said anything. _______________________ Produced and written by Mickey Wilder. © All rights reserved.

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