This city encloses me like the cold arms of a dead lover
Whose silent grasp still grips me ever tighter.
This ocean is his hand,
These streets are his arms,
And these buildings are his fingers
Which move me like water, then wring me dry.
The sun is his eyes, which stare me blind.
This land, his body, wraps around me and holds me close –
I should never again break free.
But I do not want to break free,
For this city’s arms, your arms, are what I need,
What I have always wanted.
And I should want it.
But still, my lover,
I’d rather that I would talk with you,
That you were warmer,
And that you would stop that awful staring.