I was at central station waiting for a train. 
The sun was struggling through cloud. 
He asked me for a light because I was putting out a cigarette. 
It was something in his eye that told me to ask. 

Days later we said goodbye in the same place where we met. 
We agreed to meet again there, 
but knowing how intentions fade, 
I doubt we will. 

I wonder if I can explain to you 
how I've had to leave some things unspoken, 
how some things are better off unsaid. 

It's necessary to construct a persona here, 
to know that I am dead, 
that this voice is not me, 
that it's in my possession 
this text cannot be.