AND THE RAIN PISSED DOWN

AND THE RAIN PISSED DOWN

You left me at the bus stop
with a suitcase and a lie,
you said, “It isn’t working,”
then would not meet my eye.

The number ten went sailing past,
its windows warm and bright,
while I stood there like a broken fool
in the middle of the night.

And the rain pissed down,
it ran beneath my clothes,
mixed itself with all my tears
and dripped from off my nose.

You walked away beneath my coat,
the one you said you’d lost,
I watched you turn the corner
without caring what it cost.

My shoes were full of dirty rain,
my hair stuck to my face,
and every promise you had made
was drowning in that place.

And the rain pissed down,
as though the sky had heard,
heaven throwing buckets
at your final rotten words.

A taxi driver stopped for me,
he said, “Love, are you all right?”
I said, “I think my heart just died,”
he said, “Then we’ll drive slow tonight.”

He never asked for money,
just took me to my door,
and waited till my hallway light
fell safely on the floor.

I sat wrapped up in blankets
with a cup of steaming tea,
and realised the worst had passed—
because you had set me free.

For you had taken years from me,
my laughter and my pride,
but somewhere at that bus stop
something stronger came alive.

And the rain pissed down,
but it washed away your name,
it carried all your promises
straight down the nearest drain.

Now every time the clouds turn black,
I smile at what I found—
the night you walked away from me
and the rain pissed down.