Over the deep Manhattan squall,
the din of summer going long,
it said I was here, but it didn’t feel I’d gone,
open the heavens, send me home,
The more that I said it the less I regret it,
I swore I heard you murmur something,
in four or five days we’ll be back there again and
if I can’t live it, I don’t deserve to go.
They said we killed the Commodore,
but all I heard was highway roar,
peeling the paint from swathes of the hotel walls,
I missed the bleak midwinter cold.
The more that I said it the less I regret it,
I swore I heard you murmur something,
in four or five days we’ll be back there again and
if I can’t live it, I don’t deserve to
occupy time in the myriad lives that
I don’t really feel that I can
quantify, I could die multiple times, but
I’ll never truly know anyone.