Days

when you weren’t anyone. Days gone undercover. Days half-dead in half-light, days under the covers. Days hoping for a dawn that wouldn’t come, days nights and the sun a dull, faded thing seen through nights of curtains drawn through days of nothing but you, you being the last thing you’d want to think about, you being, you’d discovered, precisely the fucking problem. Days indistinguishable. Everything a problem. Days gone, days not done but done in from the start, days of never touching a pen or making a start

but thoughts a blank — days of feeling nothing then everything, everything come to nothing.

Days put behind you. Days that don’t deserve the name. Days put behind you. Days would never be the same.