And come Saturday I'm standing at Victoria, at London Bridge, at Bank, and I can't stand here without thinking of you, in fact I can't be in this city without thinking about you. And if it not for those four weeks, three years before, I'd probably never have come here, the streets and the buildings. Mansion House, and the hours we spent outside St Paul's and the questions I'd ask that you were able to answer so freely.
That morning. How we lay, entangled. And how the November chill rouged your cheeks. The streets close, and warmed by open doors, busy with people. Drinking coffee. The new library. And we were much alike then, and now so far apart I'm unsure. But if one could wait. Two years. Or perhaps we need not, if you'd ask me now, I'd take the 318 mile drive. And in the summer, we could frequent the cottage, a beach I'd pine for you to see. A sea view to lose you. And we'd waste dusk by the waterfront, through reeds of the estuary.
Bring me home.
1 comment:
STOP! You're breaking my fuckin heart. And it's been 3 years. That's a long time to carry a torch. Your arms must be getting tired.
You're a bright, funny, insightful young man with "boyish good looks". There's someone out there for you, but getting round the triumph you've constructed over the past years must be daunting as hell.
It's ok to mourn, but you don't have to burn on the pyre to make it more convincing.
Post a Comment