It is always cold at Train Stations

It is always cold at train stations, I heard someone say today.

I felt, for a moment, the truth of their statement resonate, ironically,

in the racking chill of my bones and the laboring catch of my breath.

In England, at least, it is always cold at train stations; haunted with

The memory and threat of the man who jumps, with a bag over his head,

blind to his life and beauty he departs from. Was even he cold, then, in

Those final moments? When his legs worked, furiously, his breath

Shallower, weaker, in the final seconds before his form became flesh

And his flesh became putty. It is always cold at train stations, even

On the hottest summer day, you are chilled by travel; we are always

Lamenting our departure from somewhere, dreading our arrival or

the arrival of another, the other woman. It is always cold at train stations,

even on that day that you ran to me, sign clutched with my name blazoned

on cheap Woolworths cardboard. You said it was cheesy, but cheesy

is uncomfortable and funny and this was warm and amusing, touching

in some base, mortal way. But even then it was cold at the train station,

perhaps in forewarning of the heartbreak that could come. Did the

station know, in the power of it’s displacement, that soon we would

part like trains blasting past each other on well-kept tracks, a gush

of air and nothing more, leaving chill in our wake for those on the

platform. It is colder now, for me, at train stations cursed with the

tarnished memory of what was once only happiness, now bleak

and sorrowful. It is perhaps not so cold for you as for me, but

it is always cold at train stations.

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