Almost touching mine, rests the leg of someone else 

who got swallowed up by time. 

I share a train home 

with a woman drawing the face of her crying child,

and a man watching a marathon on his phone – 

taking pain killers for mystery aches in his legs and his sides.

Through a gap between seats, two strangers of the same age 

quietly wait for each other

then part ways. 

I breathe in what could’ve been. I realise it was never alive.

I take out a book and a pen

and underline the words I wish I’d combined.

Tonight I’ll sleep beside a skeleton, 

and cling to the bare bones of my thoughts. 

I’ll wake up the same – 

without a name for my book nor a book to my name.

I’ll remind myself the page is patient.

The page can’t be blamed.