When we sit at staionary station
Watching
Our essence drift by
Sometimes you'll find the strength
To reach out
At the trails left behind.

But sometimes you won't.

And as you impound
These thoughts, it's already too
Late.

You wait, wondering where; people
Have gone,
You open your eyes, realising they were never closed.
And you tumble slightly onto the tracks.

As the memoirs of your evening come back,
You awaken screaming internally at all the empty faces.

You squint briefly
To the inconveince of blinking.

But you are no longer there.