The last train is gone its whistle a ghost

The last train is gone, its whistle a ghost,

as the station grows empty, a vast, hollow coast.

I lean on the wall, act like I'm fine,

while workers stack chairs, one by one, in line.

The fluorescent lights flicker, a rhythm like fate,

a beat to the silence, while I hesitate,

pretending I chose to linger here late,

yet longing for movement, the chance to escape.

I watch as they gather, each chair is a weight,

and I think of the distance I crafted, innate,

between the world waiting and the one that I miss,

it’s a strange sort of freedom, this fleeting abyss.