Brighton

Brighton

I loved you first in salt-wet air,

in gull-song mornings, half-lit squares,

where strangers spoke like long-lost friends

and every night refused to end.

Your streets were stitched with music thin

from open doors and smoky gin,

and laughter spilled on Western Road

like something warm against the cold.

I found my people by the sea,

those wild and restless souls like me,

who danced through rain on midnight piers

and made a home from borrowed years.

And then there was you.

Of course there was you.

Like Brighton light on tired skin,

you pulled the lonely from within.

Your hands felt steady as the tide,

your voice became my favourite side

of every crowded, aching day

I thought I’d someday drift away.

But towns like this don’t let you leave

without a weight tucked in your sleeve.

The station board, the final train,

the quiet platform after rain,

I swear the whole sea held its breath

to watch me choose a smaller death.

Because leaving isn’t just the place,

the lanes, the pubs, the painted face

of evenings glowing gold and blue,

it’s leaving parts of me with you.

And somewhere Brighton still exists:

in coffee steam, in stranger’s wrists,

in songs escaping passing cars,

in sudden salt upon the dark.

I left the town.

The town stayed loud.

But I still carry Brighton around.

And I still love you there.