I step off the train,
I’m walking down your street again,
and past your door,
but you don’t live there anymore.
It’s years since you’ve been there.
Now you’ve disappeared somewhere
like outer space,
you’ve found some better place,
and I miss you
- like the deserts miss the rain.
Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead
of everyone.
We’d walk behind while you would run.
I look up at your house,
and I can almost hear you shout
down to me
where I always used to be,
and I miss you -
like the deserts miss the rain.
Back on the train,
I ask why did I come again.
Can I confess
I’ve been hanging around your old address?
And the years have proven
to offer nothing since you moved.
You’re long gone
but I can’t move on,
and I miss you -
like the deserts miss the rain
