The bricks called to me
in echolocation,
under the guise of festivals
and train whistles,
just to bring me back here.

Here, where I took refuge
in the hallways once,
and the gentle trot
of someone special
always came up behind me.

It doesn’t take a bloodhound
to sniff out my nostalgia,
and its pungent perfuming 
of turf and puppy love.

“Never let me leave”, I utter,
but the doors are open anyway,
and the London fog rolls in
just in time, to catch a single tear.