I imagine, quietly,
if this were it.
If, while I waited on this train platform,
this ever-romanticized,
transient in-between,
someone pushed me into the tracks.
It would be an accident, of course.
What was I waiting for, anyway?
The news would hear it first,
and they'd be the first to forget me.
Clamboring over my unremarkable story
to the next and the next and the next.
I hope I'd make a favourable statistic.
Then what family I have would hear,
once they determined who I was,
and they'd worry I wasn't pushed.
They'd have so many questions
I'd be unable to answer,
much like when I visit.
Then would come a lover,
as sad as those who loved me,
and they would keep my photo
until they grew tired of looking.
For their own sake,
I'd hope they got tired quickly.
Friends would remember me
and tell me kind words I wouldn't hear,
and I'd be of no help to them anymore.
Every once in a while,
I'd come up in a conversation,
and I'd hope they'd grin at a memory,
but it would be more likely they'd frown.
There it'd be,
my young life detailed
in saddened conversation and tears,
until I'd be left another piece of the past.
The statistic of an unremarkable life.