The city told me to tell you,
That it misses you.
The river circled by bridges,
Couples steal across, on the way home,
From dinner and jazz in utopia.
The saxophonist on the corner,
Blows out one more note and stops,
Lights up a cigarette and exhales.
The painter on the street,
She sits and paints in chinese ink,
Portraits of unnamed lovers.
The photographer stands in the cathedral,
Looking up at smashed windows,
Holes in stained glass filling with night.
So the city told me that it misses you,
But I know that you'll never listen.
I get up and turn the city lights out.