Across the city there's a golden chill. A rare holding still. As if somebody's gonna sing. A dip in tempo for the castanet shoes. No blues and twos. As if somebody's gonna sing. And in the moment hanging on to you. We're a bundle of clothes and shoes. Whatever we could find. You are the reason for this missing beat. On the streets that I love. And in me. Now I'm here at your side. We try to rhyme our stride. And head for supplies. Way down inside me was a pilot light. That good friends tended. And fed with tiny kindnesses. And there was comfort. In a stranger's bed from time to time. It has to be said it just reminded us. The brief ignition of a hopeful flame. But there and then gone. It wasn't the same and then a rostrum struck. The way you read me like you wrote this book. And chapters along it's still in your eyes. Now I'm here at your side. As though. The street. That meets our feet might know. We try to rhyme our stride. And head for supplies. Across the city there's a golden chill. A rare holding still. As if somebody's gonna sing. A dip in tempo for the castanet shoes. No blues and twos. As if somebody's gonna sing. We glide. We spin. You end and I begin. I made this mess for you. To sift through for all time. You're glowing from within. Beneath an autumn sky. We find our rhyming stride. And head for supplies