Nørrebro blues.
Men searching for fish in scattered dozens,
circle open arms familiar and fervent,
but nothing can save us now, my love, I think,
as we cook in a cosy cubby of gleaming evening light;
a drifting satellite amongst the vacuum of familiarity;
we walk foreign miles in silences that still echo
vacantly, as empty eggs, hollow.
Once, you said love is just a really long goodbye
sings a voice above, now both us and ours,
as nothing can save us now, my love, I thought,
at restaurant tables, in nordic streets,
nor by still, cold sheets, lakeside tears glinting as silver
by bustling bike-lanes, above dear street-beers,
hands locked loose till the end.