I used to watch the silver rain fall
On Sundays whilst listening to The National.
My breath would form fogged circles,
On cold windows, arching over a suburban view.

I watch your eyes move
Make plans behind ice irises
And beautiful though the April sun is
It scratches in dry heat

My tentative plans forming
Concrete ambition
My dreams melt into one
Mind ticking rapidly
In midday sun

So I don't really know where I'll be
                                       This time next year...