Perroon

Red bricks layered with damp grey cement,

the edges of the steps for years have been spent.

The cracked glass front on a bulletin board,

last used a decade ago, will never be restored.

You’d think it’s extinct, and you’re not all wrong.

He never comes here, who doesn’t belong.

There’s a man on a bench – hunched, waiting on,

forever pretending that she is not gone.

Another one coming with roses in hand.

Does he get to leave, or is left there to stand?

No help from the clock on the cracked-up wall,

its hands have been tied since nineteen ninety-four.

A red-haired girl with a smile to remember,

she’s been regular here since last year’s December.

What happened? I don’t know. Must have been fall,

when the payphone in the corner delivered her last call.

A man, let’s call him John, has a scar on his face,

with the flask in his pocket, he’s trying to erase

the pictures burned deep in his mind by the gate

when he showed up on time after saying he’d be late.

The dog without an owner, with no home to go,

you wouldn’t even notice, if you didn’t know.

He’s here like us all, raising his head

to every new sound, still hoping. Misled.

As far as myself - I’m not here to board the train.

Every golden blond curl that stepped off in the rain,

every baby blue dress and brown pair of boots

made my heart skip a beat—I thought it was you.

When the once-a-week train comes to a stop,

there’s a sliver of hope, but some hearts still drop.

I remember the feeling I held onto back then,

searching for your shadow. Let down. Once again.

I cannot recall, was it June or July,

whichever it was, we witnessed another goodbye.

A soldier in uniform held his stare up so high,

only now I realize he worked hard not to cry.

His girl, back then, in a light summer dress,

he couldn’t be sure - even she had just a guess.

Few months had gone by, clearly two hearts in that coat,

she dragged her suitcase, a lump in her throat.

It’s hard to stay here, where time runs and stays still,

we know that it’s over, but leaving would kill

that bittersweet fragrance of what could have been

when everything still had its chance to begin.