Today I dipped my toe over the edge, thinking of you and how you slid under. People will
only wonder why the train is delayed and they have to wait, but I wonder about how
you might have been. I know how your story ends, because today when I arrived
for the line the lights were all ablaze to clean up and take your body away.
Everything is dirty contrast when illuminated this bright. I waited alone.
Your stop was not my own. You were alone too. Why didn’t you try?
Everyone else was still at home except apparently you, and me, and
that employee. “The line is down,” he said with regret. He hadn’t told
me about you yet, but I could see it on his face, the way he wept
without tears or emotional display. No news will mention you
today, or the tragedy of your final breath, a violent death
but not worthy of their words or pen. You must have
felt so hopeless. Again. Again. Again. And Again.
The train your last friend to hold you close. I hope
you didn’t feel the electricity of that last touch.
Others have preceded you on this journey.
Dozens each year. But, I’m still here.
Reading your whiteboard epitaph
written in black dry erase: