Not leaving

After many days of being alone,
Both in private and public,
Brought to tears by pretty strangers
Who wear their hair wild
And speak softly to the air
While tearing paper napkins;
(And when) one finds himself waking up
To the holy songs of deserts
Sung in a chorus to a black and grey city,
and the nights are sweetened by music,
Softened by a drink or two
Of your favourite black eyes,
Lost eyes in the crowd,
One begins to forget
Where he began
And what he meant to find
In the box that he held so close
While walking the dusty roads.