we weave our way in and out of newsagents and book
shops and bottle shops and i lose myself in your
stories about the places we pass trying to see with
your eyes what it was like so many years ago.

sometimes we end up at opposite ends of a shop and
across the shelves i see you flipping through a glossy
magazine or gently handling a thick paperback by a
writer who you saw perform when you were traveling around Europe.

and then we walk outside and we begin our way down
another street. sometimes i don't really hear the
stories you tell because i am lost in the way you
paint from the past to me and want to ask questions
but change my mind afraid that you will stop talking.

sometimes we get lost which you deny. i know where we
are going but i keep quiet and let you lose us so i
can get to see you scratch your head submerged in
thought and being lost makes the trip a little longer.

every street has a memory for you and cafe owners are
friends of yours from the time you were a student here
and in love with an attractive blond German girl over
there who stood you up and this was only the second
time someone has ever done that to you.

then we come back to wherever we are meant to be and
you belong to others again and i to my own corner
thinking of the coffee shop woman's sad life and start
to notice the barber shop does play 60s music...