The last train keeps its violet windows.
Tickets flutter like moths against the glass.
Nobody boards. The platform learns our names
and does not say them back.
Somewhere down the track, a signal blinks,
patient as a held breath.
The last train keeps its violet windows.
Tickets flutter like moths against the glass.
Nobody boards. The platform learns our names
and does not say them back.
Somewhere down the track, a signal blinks,
patient as a held breath.