And maybe I’ll sleep at the station because there’s nothing to go home to
but an empty fridge and some stale mayonnaise.
And maybe I’ll make friends with the guys sleeping under cardboard boxes
and newspapers and we’ll discuss what it means to love and to live.
And maybe I’ll wander the city, one lost particle in a dust storm of Mondays, late nights and reports due yesterday.
And maybe I’ll get on a plane or a ship and get lost in places I’ve never been lost in before.
And maybe I’ll keep my phone on me in case you call.
And tell me there’s something to come home to.
– I wrote this for you