Train, Late

Between your eyes

and mine

nothing but carriage silence—

01:34,

seat vinyl cold through my coat.

You keep adjusting your sleeve,

not looking,

your hand circling the idea

of my hand

without landing.

I search the window

for one specific tree—

gray, split, stubborn—

but get only Yesenin’s country

repeating itself,

fields pretending not to watch me

pretend.

What am I doing

on this train—

crowded, overheated,

my subconscious riding loud

like it paid extra

for momentum.

Words about rocks

at the bottom of rivers

won’t move from thought to pen.

They sit there

in Virginia`s pockets.

Heavy.

Unimpressed.

Fuck it.

It’s just a train.

Strangers breathing wrong.

And you—

one specific unknown person

close enough to matter,

far enough to remain theory.

The wheels insist forward,

Hegel passing through

like a conductor who never asks

where I want to stop.

I don’t.

For once,

clarity would be

missing the ride—

stepping off with nothing

but the quiet weight

of a 50 dollars ticket.