It's the same scenery.
A lone man waits in the cover of night 
For his transport to arrive at 00:00. 
In an almost foetal position
He sits, 
He waits 
And feels the weight of the weather on his shoulders.
Whether he saw the mirror or it saw him, 
He wasn't sure - isn't sure. 
A puddle accumulates at the bank of the curb 
And he drowns his mind in it. 
A storm is to come, 
Perhaps it has arrived already
Because in the vastness of the ocean, 
We only ever see it as waves 
Crashing onto the shore. 
He looks down at his wrist 
To watch as he once again
Adds volume to the mass of water. 
It's now 00:07, 
No one coming to pick him up; 
He knew this well. 
Yet, he chooses to wait. 
You may think him foolish
And I would probably agree,
But he most certainly is not pathetic. 

You were but a flame so fragile 
That the beat of a moth's wing
Would extinguish it. 
He was your star among stormy seas,
A prayer to ward your doubts. 
You say he is okay
And he is recovering well
But even as my windscreen turns to oil
It is clear to me;
You only know how to conjure storms.