Waiting for your return, day after day:
I felt that just might be enough,
Once I turn from red to blue.
The name of this city,
In which I met you, is Tokyo.
On a Sunday in August, rain falls;
Thinking there’s no way I could possibly go anywhere,
I stop the clock’s alarm.
It pours,
As if the clear weather of yesterday was all a lie…
I start to feel like making a phone call,
That would go pointlessly on and on.
Imagining you, day after day:
That’s the only reason I’m breathing.
It’s fucked up – it’s so fucked up, but…
The name of this city,
In which I found you, is Tokyo.
A Sunday in August – All of this,
May be nothing more… than a dream…
I stop the clock’s alarm.
I have fantasies that go pointlessly on and on,
-About the time between when you pass through the turnstiles,
To when you hit the road home-
Getting more and more worried.
Even if there is still someone else,
Within your heart…
Beneath this starless sky,
I want to be by your side… pretending not to notice.
Waiting for your return, day after day:
I felt that just might be enough.
Light comes shining in through the window.
The name of this city,
In which I met you, is Tokyo.