Walking Home
It seems the city sleeps during the week, I noticed this on my half hour walks home from work each day, There is less than a dozen strangers on a weeknight, But once Friday night comes, Out from the bushes in droves come the drinker and partiers, The city showing its true colors, Drunken gibberish being spouted at one another, Across the streets, Cigarettes smoked in packs outside neon bars.
Maybe if I wasn’t a Steppenwolf I would revel in this aura, But for me a cup of tea and a book suffice any night of the week, As I near my destination I’ve come to realize, How truly lonely my solitude is, And the regrets I face, turning down an invitation to join the masses, To sleep an extra few hours before work.
I recall when she was still mine, The nights we walked these same streets, I hadn’t realized it then, But I was in paradise, A new life in the city was everything we dreamed of, But it only took two months of us living here, For her to desire something else, Solitude, The thing I take comfort in now is what she wanted most, When all I want is to be hers again.