the train leaves at 5, but
you won’t be there like you said.
you’ll be finishing off other people’s beers
at a sport’s bar in Michigan,
fighting off the urge to call your first love,
shoving the drooling boys off your arm,
hiccupping and cursing and crying
you whisper your worst fears in stranger’s ears,
this is therapy, you think,
this is love.
the police had to give you a ride home,
and even though you still make jokes,
you’re quieter than you were before.
by the time you’re left sitting on your porch,
the world is spinning, and you can’t find the key,
and feeling up your pockets and the floor,
you start to feel frustration swell like acceptance,
like finally understanding that this is it,
this is it.
it’s 3 in the morning, and
the train left ten hours ago, and
once you find the key
you slip inside
you will curl up on the rug
let it scratch your cheek
and you cry because you stopped trying to talk to him
and you cry because you don’t think he cared
and then you pass out, with clenched fists and hair still pinned up
and you forgot about the train
i wish you never had to wake up to the realization
that you missed it
