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.