Northbound

I lost you at the Euston station again,

circled back just to find you

standing there in a rush.

If only I had leapt from the platform sooner,

mimicking the unbridled angst that got us into this mess -

a high treason jester feigning revelry.

If only I had never stared directly into the sun

to catch that scarring glimpse of forsaken beauty -

an amateur attempt at begging truths into lies.

Now I'm shuffling upstream underground hunting it again,

in a sophisticated a capela waltz with snowy strangers,

my penchant for this social dance as festive as it is destructive,

though that never seems to bother you.

Nor downtrodden suitcases tripped up on wet cobblestone corners,

silky yet rough like the parchments that built this old town,

the cynical smiles that breathe it anew,

and the Parliaments we smoke to remember where we came from.

Where do people go when they’re waiting to be someone else?

When they start to need more than all they’ve ever wanted?

“We were created to find out the hard way” we say

trembling.

Besides Exit is just another word for a Way Out

in a havoc city that reckons we either give up or give in -

under neon fog where actions and ideas can’t tell each other apart,

boasting brilliant entropy.

That’s where we collide

and at least I see you clearly

northbound at Euston station;

the pungency of the countryside stalking our periphery,

though we could never really stomach it anyway.

And somehow

between the diabolical clatter of our bone chill

you still whisper

“Are you okay?”