I’d never move
When Sunday opened it’s legs
for Monday far too easily,
I would 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)
(written a while back but realised I never shared it)