I step off the train, I'm walking down your street again, and past your door, you don't live there anymore. It's years since you've been there. you've disappeared somewhere like outer space, you've found some better place, and I miss you like the deserts miss the rain. Could you be dead? You always were two steps of everyone. We'd walk behind while you would run. I look up at house, and I can almost hear you shout down to me where I always used to be, and I miss you - like deserts miss the rain. Back on the train, I ask why did I again. Can I confess I've been hanging your old address? And the years have proven to offer nothing since you moved. You're long gone but I can't move on, and I miss - like the deserts miss the rain