The train windows are black.
Other than a few passing lamplights,
The only thing that can be seen is the reflection in the window.
The train slows and stops at a station,
Alongside an identical but entirely empty train.
Full of dim light or full of ghosts, we move on.
The other train doesn’t mind, it has its own perception of time,
The train and conductor try to throw me from my seat when we change lines. Bumping and swerving, it makes it hard to write.
I wish the best for those aboard who are trying to sketch.
When you look out into the pitch black,
The only thing you can see is yourself,
It is terrifying for some, and quite soothing for others.
When you move, the you in the window moves. When you raise your arm your arm in the window does the same. Some people love the sense of control. Others hate it.
