The Train Station

I still wait at the old station bench where we once counted trains,

Where your scarf trailed behind you in the winter wind,

Where your voice softened the cold in ways no coat ever could.

The last time I saw you here… your hands trembled,

You waved, but it was a wave I knew carried goodbye.

Stop,

That’s not the you I want to hold onto.

I want to remember the way you pressed your forehead against the window,

Laughing when the glass fogged with your breath,

Or the way you slipped tickets into my pocket like secret promises.

Not the silence that came when your seat stayed empty.

STOP.

I remember the warmth of your shoulder,

How I leaned on it when nights felt endless.

I remember you tracing letters in the air with your finger,

Telling me love was a language no dictionary could hold.

I remember the way your laughter echoed off the iron beams,

And how even the pigeons paused to listen.

NO.

I remember your messy handwriting on crumpled postcards,

The way you always forgot stamps,

The way your goodbye smelled faintly of rain and tobacco.

I remember you telling me,

“If you ever miss me, just listen for the trains.

Every departure is also an arrival, somewhere.”

I still sit here.

I still listen.

And I still love you.