CITY

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The sun still shines in this city, very much so, I'm afraid. Summer rains yet to pour down, once familiar walls repainted, the streets glimmering with all that you no longer recognise. You look skywards, and even the crows caw different. This isn't the place that you had left, those aren't your footsteps you seem so keen on retracing back. Barefoot baggage to reclaim, your people aren't your people anymore. Everyone's busy doing everything else. The barista won't take your order, the waitress spits in your coffee, and asks you to tell her that you like it. Some part of this make-believe charade has to be untrue. But here you stand, in the city that refuses to love you back. This isn't so much the unrequited love, as it is about misplaced affections. You can still go walking on that road no one travels to, but you have to return home now. You're a tourist at the place you once called home. The sea tides do nothing to stop you. This isn't you, it isn't yours. The train leaves in 10. Get on it never to return. And then do so anyway.

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