We met at a station
waiting on trains to take us
in opposite directions,
but we fell
instantly
in love
right there on the platform,
and
- all previous travel plans forgotten -
decided to get on the same train,
just for the hell of the journey
and for the sake of being together.

That was the official line
if people asked us how we met,
and I suppose that, in a way,
it's kind of true.

We've passed through countless stations
since that fateful, fictional day,
watched a hundred different landscapes
flicker by outside,
traced nonsense patterns on misted windows,
and talked, and laughed,
and done things that would no doubt
have embarrassed the ticket inspector
if he'd caught us.

And I'm sure I should be bored by now,
of this journey, of this carriage.
I should be looking to get my things together,
to get off at the next stop we pull into.
But I'm not.
Instead,
I find myself just as enthralled,
just as happy,
and every bit as brilliantly
and blindingly in love
as when I first met you on that platform,
when you asked me to split a fiver/when I
walked into you because I wasn't
looking where I was going/when you noticed
the book I was reading and struck up
a conversation/when eyes met across a crowd
of suited commuters disembarking,
or however else it didn't quite happen,
however many miles ago.

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