Train Platform Poetry
It’s the way I only feel comfortable in black,
And how my idea of a good time is pretending that time doesn’t exist at all.
Thoreau said you couldn’t kill time without injuring eternity.
So, I have chosen to hide from it instead.
I have to ask, are you drowning in your trauma, too?
The way you loved me like I was something too fragile to keep
close but too damaged to just throw away.
He doesn’t think that I’m pretty,
But I’m trying.
The way the train is never on time when you want it to be,
But seems to skip stops whenever you aren’t ready to leave.
The way I still zip my sweatshirt over my stomach even when it’s summer,
Trying to hide the fat in a stomach I was never sure was ever really there in the first place.
It’s 75 degrees, and I think this might be spring.
The way your hair blows across your shoulders on the train platform,
Framing the two years worth of baggage the other passengers have thrown away.
It’s the way you say fuck art.
And the way I think it doesn’t even want you.
We’re all just living in these strange time machines called bodies.
Taking on the years in the only way we know how — -war.
So I will take this train,
And maybe one day,
I will see you again.
