The Last Train Never Learnt My Name
The station kept its clocks like widows keep old rings,
counting the silence instead of the years.
I bought a ticket for a place
that had already forgotten me.
Every departing train
borrowed another piece of my shadow.
The platform remained,
faithful only to abandoned footsteps.
A raven watched the rails
as though grief had grown feathers.
The night smelt of rain,
iron,
and letters no one dared to send.
I still carry your name
like a match that refuses to die,
burning only enough
to remind me that warmth
is sometimes the cruellest form of absence.
Should Heaven ever ask
where my heart disappeared,
tell it not to search the skies.
It was left beside Platform Nine,
beneath a dying lamp,
waiting for a train
that never learnt my name.