I saw your face in a Woolworths window. But it wasn’t yours, it was mine, and it was all cracked and covered in shards and discount pens and cheap sweets. Barely worth breaking into. Like one of those new Toblerones. Same sized packet but full of air. I heard you in a traffic jam, stationary and late and covered in soot. I liked that about you, full of oil and passengers and mixtapes. I hope you get there in the end. I tried you on in a Topshop changing room. You were baggy and itchy and not my colour. Or a perfect fit. I put you back on the rail. You were the buffet car and the quiet carriage, everywhere and nowhere, always on schedule but never on time. My chicken goujon, milk of magnesia, can of steam, never what you seem.