the cute bomber jacket you've had since sixth form
adorned with patches of places you've been
is nothing on my khaki coat i got
from a roadside when i was sixteen
my boots are from airports
my backpack's from friends
i'm not a man of substance, and so i'll pretend
to be a wanderer, wondering
leaving ascetic belongings in hostels and restaurant bins
the roads are my home, horizon's my target
if i keep on moving, never lose sight of it
treating my memory of you like a fire, let it
burn out, don't fight it, and try to move on
it's been sixty weeks since i saw vienna
a bandage and a wide smile slapped across my face
i'll pick up my hiking boots when i am ready
and i'll put down my roots when i'm dead
the distance is futile
come on, don't be hasty
you'll get that feeling deep inside your bones
i'll be gone then, for when you must be alone