It's a busy street-
The cars on it stop for no one.
There's trash on the sidewalk,
I spot a broken bottle and a guitar pick;
They must have belonged to a melancholic musician.
The lights, they form an unending string of pearls,
The beams from them, they illuminate your face.
I look around, and think of the last time I was on this street-
I'd just had my soul broken.
But now, I feel light and airy and gleeful.
I look around. I finally grasp that
Time does heal all wounds.
