Oh my god, it's all around.

I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right.
I remember everything, lick and thread this string that will never mend you
or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor,
or the fire-door that we kept propping open.
And I love this place, the enormous sky,
and the faces, hands that I’m haunted by,
so why can’t I forgive these buildings,
these frameworks labeled “Home”?