Somewhere in East London.
Setting sun is sleeping tight.
Welcoming the city lights.

And the honeysuckle curls around the wire.
Where we once lent.
Good times we spent.
But you were a liar.

Summer last year came and went.
Memories of fish and chips.
Such great moments spent.
On Brighton prom.
Sat on that bench.
Our bench.
Watching the rolling waves.
The rolling waves that saved us.
Discarded the wrappers and ran like the clappers.
Flew like the wind.
Which demanded to beat us right round the ears.

Into the sunset.
Lest us not forget how we felt before the sun dared to set.
Seeing you cry before saying goodbye.
Waving careless hands.
Tears that rolled from the end of your nose.
Magic wands.
Can't fix it.
Sought fortune.
In fortune-telling.
Tarot cards selling.
Welling tears.
Many years been and gone.
Still the same old song.
Banging the gong.
All gone.
(c)LIVVI