Eleven years is a long time.
Apparently, it still fits by the door.
Black Dress is about what remains once a long relationship has been reduced to boxes, possessions and two rather different versions of what happened. There are things worth arguing over and things you eventually realise aren’t worth another conversation. The dress stays. So does my name, my side of the story and, rather inconveniently for him, a perfectly functional life afterwards. He can keep the good towels.
You took the good towels when you left
And somehow left the bills
Three boxes marked “not worth much”
Were mostly mine, but still
You’d cleared your side by half past two
I’d changed the lock by four
Funny how eleven years
Fits neatly by the door
I found the restaurant receipt
From somewhere you once lied
Two drinks, a meal, a Tuesday night
You said you’d worked till five
I nearly rang to ask you why
Then put the phone away
I’d known enough for long enough
There wasn’t more to say
I kept the black dress
I kept the receipt
I kept my name
You kept your story
You took the towels
You took your things
You took eleven years
And called it leaving
I kept the black dress
(black dress)
It still looks good on me
And I won’t be sweet
No, I won’t be sweet
Your mother called on Sunday night
To tell me you’re “not well”
I said I’m sorry, naturally
She had a lot to tell
Apparently you mention me
Whenever things go wrong
It’s nice to know I’m useful still
Now that I’ve moved on
You always liked the version where
I couldn’t cope alone
Still falling into pieces
Still waiting by the phone
Sorry if it spoils the story
Nothing fell apart
I bought myself a bigger bed
And sleep right in the middle
I kept the black dress
I kept the receipt
I kept my name
You kept your story
You took the towels
You took your things
You took eleven years
And called it leaving
I kept the black dress
(black dress)
It still looks good on me
And I won’t be sweet
No, I won’t be sweet
You can tell them I was difficult
I’ll give you that for free
Tell them whatever works
As long as it was mostly me
Just leave out Wednesday morning
When you came back for your things
And stood there in the doorway
Waiting to be let back in
I kept the black dress
I kept the receipt
I kept my name
You kept your story
You took the towels
You took your things
You took eleven years
And called it leaving
I kept the black dress
(black dress)
It still looks good on me
And I won’t be sweet
No, I won’t be sweet