I step off the train,
I'm walking down your street again,
and past your door,
but you don't live there any more.
It's years since you've been there.
Now you've disappeared somewhere,
like outer space,
you've found some better place,
and I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain.
Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead of everyone.
We'd walk behind while you would run.
I look up at your house,
and I can almost hear you shout down to me,
where I always used to be,
and I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain.
Back on the train,
I ask why did I come again?
Can I confess I've been hanging round your old address?
And the years have proved,
to offer nothing since you moved.
You're long gone but I can't move on,
and I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain.