This original poem for Poemopedia’s poems archive lingers in the hour when departure is over and the heart must decide what to do with the silence that remains.
Original poem.
The platform keeps the shape of everyone who left.
A paper cup leans slowly toward the tracks.
High in the rafters, one exhausted bulb
holds back the dark with a thumbprint of wax.
The final train has folded into distance now,
a red stitch loosening at the hem of town.
It took the easy noise of wanting with it,
the practiced wave, the brave and borrowed sound.
What stays is smaller: rain along the rail,
the iron breath that rises after wheels,
a suitcase shadow, mine and not quite mine,
and all the hurt the body never seals.
Yet grief, when no one watches, alters shape.
It stops performing. It becomes a room.
You hear the clock, the settling of your coat,
the patient nerve of light inside the gloom.
So hope does not arrive with trumpets here.
It does not heal. It does not loudly shine.
It simply lays a hand upon the bench
and says, Stay still a little. Dawn has time.
By morning, I will not be someone new.
The losses will remain what they have been.
But I will know the heart can learn this art:
to wait beside an ending, and not give in.
If you would like another reflective read, you can browse more pieces in Poemopedia’s poetry collection.
