Mind The Gap

you write in a letter:
"things could be better.
things are the same."
you say:
"nothing changes,"
like it's a bad thing, like it's a curse

but I want to go home, I want to go home
I want to go home, I want to go home

I'm sick of the weather
I'm sick of the little things I don't understand
you stand at a bus stop, reciting a poem under your breath
I'm riding a bicycle, conscious of icicles just overhead

and I want to go home, I want to go home
I want to go home, I want to go home,

I miss the weather, I miss the parks
and the names of the streets