I’m always going to love you, through the fog and the flame,
when the brass horns fade and the river forgets your name.
I’ll walk these wet streets, coat heavy with rain and regret,
but the ache keeps singing, a jukebox stuck on our silhouette.
Your ghost dances still in the doorway of every east-end bar,
laughing like vinyl spinning gold beneath a broken star.
Time can trade my youth for ashes, trade my pride for skin,
but it can’t unwrite the gospel of your touch across my sin.
I’m always going to love you—no last tram, no final bell—
just the echo of Dexys horns promising: I loved you well.