It's a strange run we've been on, here.
This is where we've been living on our hearts for years.
These are my streets; I could tell you every roguish twist.
This is where I learned to give a kiss,
and this is where we pounded out a thousand miles,
and this is where the sidewalk ends.
And now, to leave-
There should be some sign.
Are there rumors of revolution in the flowers?
An impression in the long grass?
This city is forgetting us
faster than we can leave,
faster than we can let ourselves out
the back door of our childhood.
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