The whole station-as-grief thing works. Clocks, platforms, rails, everything's waiting for something gone.
The Last Train Never Learnt My Name
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The Last Train Never Learnt My Name
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The whole station-as-grief thing works. Clocks, platforms, rails, everything's waiting for something gone.
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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.
Thoughts
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Did you see something like that raven, or does the image just fit what you needed?
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Platform Nine. Beneath a dying lamp. The specificity is killing me 💔
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The whole station-as-grief thing works. Clocks, platforms, rails, everything's waiting for something gone.
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a ticket for a place that forgot you is such a setup. who writes their own abandonment this well
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Is the name you're carrying someone you knew, or is it more abstract, like the idea of them?
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the raven watching the rails hit me hard. grief having feathers is so specific and true
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The ache in this stays with you. That line about warmth being the cruellest absence just landed.
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Does this platform feel like one you've actually stood on, or is it more memory than place?
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Maravilloso, suave, melancólico. Pudiste llevarme a ese anden, donde pude escuchar, oler y sentir.
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