It was the old haunts, if they could be called old.
And we went by, you, pointing out the past,
Me, silently, already remembering.
There is some incomprehensible link between lazy old coffeeshops
And youngsters in the night.
That seat, that table over there,
That evening, building,
One bizarre hour spent sitting in a corner, chatting.
They always ask, how?
But sometimes it just can’t seem to be put into an answer.