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you wouldn’t know
this day coming.
this day coming.
the 3 AM alarm
buzzing by the pillow,
and my dismissing it
instantly, as if waiting,
which I were in an
acidic insomnia;
before staggering through
the dark hallway to your room.
with a soft tap, i wait with
my knuckles on the door’s
shiny timber
hearing you wake:
the rustle of your
clothes, your bare heels
lowered to the marble.
buzzing by the pillow,
and my dismissing it
instantly, as if waiting,
which I were in an
acidic insomnia;
before staggering through
the dark hallway to your room.
with a soft tap, i wait with
my knuckles on the door’s
shiny timber
hearing you wake:
the rustle of your
clothes, your bare heels
lowered to the marble.
it’s always the same.
platform number 2.
sparing its somnambulist
travellers the ardour of wandering.
from the parallel of
of the foot-over-bridge,
i glimpse at the idle
column of coaches beneath –
freshly washed with water
splashed on glass windows
of AC cabins, its tail
vanishing beyond the bright
signal poles in night’s translucent
mist.
platform number 2.
sparing its somnambulist
travellers the ardour of wandering.
from the parallel of
of the foot-over-bridge,
i glimpse at the idle
column of coaches beneath –
freshly washed with water
splashed on glass windows
of AC cabins, its tail
vanishing beyond the bright
signal poles in night’s translucent
mist.
an IRCTC kiosk, half-opened,
hosts a ring of travellers at its
façade. sweet aroma of hard boiled
tea wraps around the complex
like gauge tightened over a wound.
i purchase packaged water and tea
through the crowd of tea-sipping,
news-reading travellers,
and head back to the coach.
you’re on the lower berth. the VIP
suitcase chained to a ring under
the seat. the adjacent ones to
be occupied from distant stations.
in the cold hum of air-condition
we drink tea, partly veiled from
footsteps milling the aisle.
only a fluttering blue drape of curtain
to our humble guard of privacy.
hosts a ring of travellers at its
façade. sweet aroma of hard boiled
tea wraps around the complex
like gauge tightened over a wound.
i purchase packaged water and tea
through the crowd of tea-sipping,
news-reading travellers,
and head back to the coach.
you’re on the lower berth. the VIP
suitcase chained to a ring under
the seat. the adjacent ones to
be occupied from distant stations.
in the cold hum of air-condition
we drink tea, partly veiled from
footsteps milling the aisle.
only a fluttering blue drape of curtain
to our humble guard of privacy.
it’s 30 minutes to departure
when i leave, ascending the same
bridge out to the exit, feeling the
moist tip of your fingers on my chin,
and your lips on my forehead.
back home, it’s still too early.
close to 5, the air quiet. cold.
the horizon ablush and trees dewy.
i lay to bed and immediately fall asleep.
when i leave, ascending the same
bridge out to the exit, feeling the
moist tip of your fingers on my chin,
and your lips on my forehead.
back home, it’s still too early.
close to 5, the air quiet. cold.
the horizon ablush and trees dewy.
i lay to bed and immediately fall asleep.
when you call to wish
morning, I squint my eyes
at the window looking down
at me spilling hot light.
you tell me about the
station you just passed.
i imagine of the sun risen
on your back, of meadows
rolling by bathed in day.
may be joined by another traveler
on the next seat. but you sure
have missed this day. one that’s
on my city. in my eyes. feeling like
an abandoned night in the wake
of your absence.
morning, I squint my eyes
at the window looking down
at me spilling hot light.
you tell me about the
station you just passed.
i imagine of the sun risen
on your back, of meadows
rolling by bathed in day.
may be joined by another traveler
on the next seat. but you sure
have missed this day. one that’s
on my city. in my eyes. feeling like
an abandoned night in the wake
of your absence.
nights
that the leaving
shall never know of.
that the leaving
shall never know of.
© Sobhan
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