the kid with purple shoes
died last year,
over the weekend.

they announced it
the following morning
at school,
where everyone
was dreading
the day
ahead,

and dreaming
about the days
after.

he’d parked his car
on the tracks
at a crossing
of life and death,
and waited.

tears drugged his mind;
vision gone blurry,
peripherals
narrowing
toward the lights
ahead,
until they were
too close
for him
to drive
away.

there was a moment of
silence
in the room,
and then soon
talking resumed,
and no one
mentioned him
again.

that night I saw him
in a dream,
still wearing
those purple shoes;
he told me to tell
his mother
he loved her,
then turned around
and walked down
the train tracks
until consumed
by the darkness
that consumes
us all.

I didn’t need to tell her,
because she already
knew,

and so did he.