I find myself asleep with my eyes open,
Watching the stations roll by my pupils,
Lulled into a state of nothingness.
Am I empty? Am I real?
Why is that man eating Wasabi on the Piccadilly?
I’m at my best when I’m cold,
I do not flourish underground
The air down here causes
breakouts and breakups
and I have no desire to dwell.
There are lines I’m afraid to step on,
People I don’t want to see.
But I’m best when I’m cold,
I like a fragile me.
The Evening Standard is stuck to my bum,
I’m sweating the dreams of the day into the arms
of my jacket.
And all I want is to get out of here alive,
I want to breathe air that isn’t recycled,
I need to see more than a suit and a mum and a pole and,
I’m hot and I’m tired and this city feels like Hades on a stick
and I’m losing the will to hope that I can navigate the chaos
of this place where opportunity is indecision and love is fickle and blind.
I’d rather be fragile than flustered,
I like the way aircon shrinks my fingers into elegance,
I ride through Oxford Circus warm and annoyed and angry.
Why have we stopped? Why am I so afraid?
Push and pull and push and pull,
Stops on the tube are triggers for memories
That flicker and whither and burn into the present.
All this meaningless so full of meaning,
My ears are burning with the whispers of the past and the hot air of promises now broken.
I’m running, chugging but nothing lies ahead,
Connections lost as the train slips passed,
Whatsapps not working,
No way of networking,
Just stare at the black and watch a ghosted you stare sadly back.