I wrote a thousand verses,
Each one about doctors and nurses.
On paper napkins in diners
and wrote the titles on matchsticks.
Tucked them in the left breast pocket
of a tattered silk check shirt
And threw the shirt away
into the shadow of a corner
of a northern Spanish bar
without brass in the backline
but shutters on the doors
and twenty, thirty people
in clusters on the floor,
looking anywhere but at each other.
Between the runners of a busted wooden pier
before the beers with Tracy on the bottle.
And I thought of you at the airport
and I was still thinking of you on the plane.
And when the police took my passport
and wrote down my name -
I thought of you again.
I was doing press-ups in the hotel lobby;
The lobby with me was unimpressed.
I managed five, but I was barely alive,
when I rolled over to rest.
And I thought of all your illnesses
and your incredible strength
And I guess that it meant that I missed you.
And I though of all the little things that always made 
you tense
and I wished I was able to tell you that
I'd have learnt a thousand tricks to make them 
disappear
With whispers in the ear
and kisses.
And I though about your lips, your mouth, your smile, 
your laugh, your lips
your lips, your mouth, your smile, your laugh, your 
lips.
And I though of you in Sweden
Like I'd been thinking of you all over Spain.
And when the pissed up student girls teased me
with the sound of my own name -
I thought of you again.