The salt from my eyes you bathed in for years,
Gave you life, gave you a signal to tune in to.
When Sunday opened it’s legs to Monday far too easily,
I’d never move. I'd never move.
There were never many stills of us
making the most of the passing hours -
My memory couldn't focus, from the station blank, still can't.
By the time it does I realise that every memory passed
was the greatest work of fiction (based loosely on us.)
