Do you remember,
two years ago
I wrote you a story,
bound with the string I could find
beneath the burned acre carpet
of my first apartment.
I gave it to you
two weeks late, on
printed cheap paper.
Chemically melted with the telling
of what I saw,
two hundred miles away
on January fifth.
I wrote about the cargo train
that passes across the street
of my university every day
at nine pm.
I told you that it drove at least two times faster
than the Amtrak, because people are more precious than cargo.
I told you about how when I was stuck
at the street crossing,
from nine to nine fifteen.
How I saw salvation
in the screaming, shaking tracks.
Tonight I heard the same train,
from outside my third apartment,
set on the opposite side of the train tracks,
a couple meters across
from where I stood two years ago,
when the smell of acid pavement
inked my memories of you,
and your eighteenth birthday.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Do you remember,
two years ago
I wrote you a story,
bound with the string I could find
beneath the burned acre carpet
of my first apartment.
I gave it to you
two weeks late, on
printed cheap paper.
Chemically melted with the telling
of what I saw,
two hundred miles away
on January fifth.
I wrote about the cargo train
that passes across the street
of my university every day
at nine pm.
I told you that it drove at least two times faster
than the Amtrak, because people are more precious than cargo.
I told you about how when I was stuck
at the street crossing,
from nine to nine fifteen.
How I saw salvation
in the screaming, shaking tracks.
Tonight I heard the same train,
from outside my third apartment,
set on the opposite side of the train tracks,
a couple meters across
from where I stood two years ago,
when the smell of acid pavement
inked my memories of you,
and your eighteenth birthday.
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