The Platform

Four days and I'm still there,

watching the steam rise from the cup you held but never drank.

The way it caught the platform light—thin air

made visible. You stood in that gray sweatshirt, blank-

eyed, paint dried on the cuff,

not performing your face for anyone. Enough

was what you were. Not trying to be

beautiful or seen. Just you, just being

the person nobody was looking for,

holding something cooling. I watched two stops before

I got off. Four days. I can't explain

the speed at which my brain went insane,

recognizing something—not you, but me

in your refusal to be anything but free

of the need to be found.

My stupid heart is still on that platform ground,

still watching you hold your absence like a sound.