In the train station of my mind,
there are moments,
doors open,
doors close.

There are cars taking ideas as passengers,
in directions multivariate,
and yet there I am.
On the platform, I wait,
Neither in motion,
nor in queue.

I am, however, thoroughly without you.

On the platform of my mind,
in the crevices of time,
I wait.

I long for a home,
merely an idea of true love's redemption,
whose direction is in question.

O how the weary traveler longs for the home,
the home that doesn't come,
for this passenger is waiting,
neither dreaming nor fully awake,
in the train station of my mind,
for an idea, in a moment that may never come.

When will you come home?
Or is my idea of home,
departed?
As you are.
As we are.

On the platform, I wait.