I came home in the rain
wiped the sleep from my eyes.
The leather of my jacket, mixed with smoke,
seemed to be the musk of the old.

In the bathroom,
an irregular heartbeat,
a mirror dumbly mirroring,
I did not take advantage of being alive.

and then,
a coffee to my lips
a cigarette in hand,
a song played in the damp dark.

In a summer years back,
she told me she was going to make a call.
I browsed the shelves of music,
picking out everything I didn't know,
everything that was alien,
everything that excited me.
London buzzed in the sun.

On the way out,
she turned to me, grinning.
Here, she said. This is for you.
She handed me the album, with the song we'd both heard
and loved,
but couldn't place.
I looked at her, amazed. She never made these kind of gestures.
Embarrassed by her own kind heart,
she moved a hand through long blond hair and said:
now when I'm far away, you can listen to this, and be with me.
Then we burst out laughing.

She has cursed me with so many beautiful songs.
I'm dripping in the cold dark,
living in her summer
forever and ever.