I dreamt last night that this train was like a moth,
trailing its paper thin wings through
dust-clad seats and nestling between the cracks
amongst small change and fag butts.
You were there, watching your breath bleach the windows
and counting how long it took before
you could see the horizon again.
The lips that only used to whisper good things
now splutter, the throat a beacon of light.
I find myself, in my head, flipping through the
final pages of books that would’ve otherwise been left unread.
They say lovers resemble one another.
Maybe this is my way to become like you?
To craft dreams such as this.