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.