| Is it April yet?
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| I forget sometimes how slowly summer passes
|
| You disappeared into Departures
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| Only half a year ago
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| It seems like so much more, you know
|
| I went a fortnight without so much as an email
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| Then a postcard scant of detail
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| In which you wished me all the best
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| From the non-specific north west
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| Should it one day come to pass
|
| That you sit down to your memoirs
|
| Where will this go?
|
| The chapter in your life entitled San Francisco
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| Are you warm enough?
|
| I remember how the fog comes off the water
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| And the days are ever shorter
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| And I worry you’ll be cold
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| Or have you found someone to hold?
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| I spent the summer with the curtains drawn against it
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| Counting all the nights you’ve wasted
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| Under unfamiliar stars
|
| Should it one day come to pass
|
| That you sit down to your memoirs
|
| Where will this go?
|
| The chapter in your life entitled San Francisco
|
| Are you ever coming clean?
|
| Or will I never know the meaning
|
| Of the lines you scribbled out
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| So that I couldn’t read between?
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| Are you ever coming home?
|
| Or should I learn to do without you?
|
| Should it one day come to pass
|
| That you sit down to your memoirs
|
| Where will this go?
|
| The chapter in your life entitled San Francisco |