I miss the cold, silver city
The drip drop down the window panes.
The metal bridges,
And the tunnels.
I miss the splashes at my ankles,
The savours of the funnel webs,
Hiding on the cold hard floor
Under clothes and sleeping wishes.
I miss the nuances, the lifted-ness.
The bright lights in the blackened fog.
The merriment of lights in windows,
That sing and dance with imaginary souls.
Or a mysterious flicker,
Of quiet in the noisiness.
I miss the foreigners, the culture.
The 4-am gutter sits and park bench talks.
But most of all I miss the songs,
The rain makes when it falls.
For now it's ceased, it never ends,
Just waits for me and calls.
Theres sense
In loneliness,
In distance.