The Last Platform
by João Constantine
You left before the station learnt my name,
while every clock insisted time was not to blame.
The final train departed without asking why,
and took the only summer living in my sky.
Your footsteps faded into iron, steam and rain;
mine stayed behind, rehearsing loss again.
The benches kept the warmth your hands had known,
yet every traveller proved I waited there alone.
The loudspeaker announced a town I could not reach;
your silence said far more than words could ever teach.
A single ticket slept inside my weathered coat,
its destination drowned inside a nameless note.
Perhaps all love is but a train we never board,
a quiet farewell no prayer can yet afford.
So if one evening you should cross these tracks once more,
you'll find my heart beside the platform, waiting as before.