Spring Morning

To The Lady on the Train,

There are those who would rush Spring to get from bitter Winter to Summer with its languid, sunny days, warm weather, and rolling flash of thunderstorms that resonate in your chest and excite the heart. And sometimes she will oblige and get out of the way. 

This year though she has lingered, relishing the slow process of waking up. There is still the smell of snow along the fence and the grass is frost tipped each morning. 

My love, too, has lingered this morning. The dawn has not yet broken but will soon when first she stirs from slumber; there is no rush.  There is no need to abandon the pillows, the sheets, the duvet that have warmed her, or at times felt too hot and been cast aside only to be gathered a little while later. She now throws aside the duvet at last and swings her legs over the edge of the bed to plant bare feet on the smooth cool floor. 

Straight backed yawn, a slow creak of shoulders stretching, and a wildness of curled hair slowly rise from the bed. Even in the dim grey light of morning, with sleep sanded eyes, and pillow creased face she is beautiful and does not believe that it aches my heart. 

She exits the bedroom to head down the hallway towards the kitchen where the magic elixir of coffee is calling. My love walks slowly, taking the time for the bones to wake up, eyes to adjust, and blood to fill out the limbs and digits. She has left the world of sleep and dreams, but is not yet ready for the day to come and all the busyness that comes with it. She will take her time and linger between these two worlds. 

Outside, the sun has peaked over the rim of the earth and Spring has opened one eye in the pale greening tendrils of the beautiful old willow at the end of the lane. 

Slow Spring and my love have risen, and I will not rush either.

The Man in the Station

Time, time time

To The Lady on the Train,

I have lamented at times the incredibly swift passage of time and how when looking back there is a chasm that yawns ever wider and on the far shore are the days that I would wish to somehow reclaim.  There are some regrets as with any life imperfectly lived, and though the taste of that regret can be bitter, it is not without some sustenance that has helped me also to grow.

And in a random restaurant that I have never heard of, in a random town that I have never before visited, I sat at at booth across from you. And time rolled away like a highway under wheels, until dusk started to press in and bring me back to the reality of distant obligations that I could no longer put off. And you had your places to be as well.

These are times that I do not concern myself with how fast they pass, except that it is always never enough. I could blink an eye and have hours passed and never begrudge or regret a moment of that time. You change how time works... With you, time stands still and yet flies passed. I guess that is why light always bends towards you.

The Man in the Station

The Wandering Pilgrim

To The Lady on the Train,

Is it regret? Is it mourning the loss? Is it the acceptance of the absence of what was? Or is it rebellion against that reality? I guess it does not matter by which name you call the empty longing that has curled inside of me. 

This emptiness is the hair-shiirt that is woven  from your wild curls that I must wear. 

And your beauty is the alter that makes every pilgrimage worth the climb and the miles crossed. The sound of your voice is the siren call that would have me gladly dashed upon the rocks. It is your strength and the way that you look at the world that shifts the sands under my feet. 

Still it is the lines of your white limbs, the round of your bum, and the arch of your back… it is the bright of your eye, the pierce of your smile, and the changing of your eyes… it is the softness of your cheek, the hardness of muscle and sinew, and the universe of freckles… it is this and so much more that are the measure that none can attain. There is no other mountain or shore that has any hold; all paths head only towards you or some mirage of you  

And I will forever be an Odysseus that can never reach his home. 

The Man in the Station

Mid-Winter’s Eve

To the Lady on the Train, 

I would trudge miles through waist deep snow to be able to sit by a fire with you. We would let the snow fall and the frost paint the window glass. And the smell of the cold and draft that follows me in will be banished by the kindling flame when coaxed to a roar, matched only by the light of your eyes and the warmth of your hands. 

The silver moon shining on the fresh snow look like the world is blanketed in gossamer and the world is hushed and as soft as your skin and glows the way you do. 

And one mid-winter’s night the outside world disappears. The winter winds blow lonely hearts through city streets, but here we are cocooned in the warm and glow of firelight.  Just to be, no more, no less. Just to be.

The Man in the Station

The 

The Beginning

Angel,

There was a night with food, music, dancing, and polite conversations. There were beautiful people but none could outshine an angel in a red dress, who stood on a stage and showed courage enough to also be vulnerable. She took my breath away.

A few innocent words spoken in another moment of vulnerability and the torch that I had carried since first sight blazed. 

Everything that I thought that I knew suddenly changed. 

No one could ever have imagined or predicted the way that night unfolded. It was in a car of a roller coaster but it was the world that moved around me... us, actually.  All I really remember is you and listening to you and dancing close with you. Nothing else mattered.

And since that one magical night when you changed all the stars I have been the luckiest man alive because I got to know you. 

And still you take my breath away. 

Just me.

One Winter’s Night

To The Lady on the Train, 

The stars are a disco ball; our moon, a red neon sign. The tracks on her soul are runway lights to a heaven, headache, and heartache. 

Sometimes the scars from our youth do not allow us to see the bloom of beauty in the adult we become. 

So we are turning and whirling and the night air is chill. But her body is warm and that will have to do tonight. 

There’s no way to tell if we’re on the train to redemption or ruin and only time will tell. So it’s 90 miles an hour to speed through this night. I pray we chase each other’s nightmares away and the morning is not too far away. 

Whatever will happen, come what may. And tomorrow brings another night. 

The Man in the Station

Road Map

To The Lady on the Train,

The blue veins that lie just under your skin are a roadmap of where my thoughts travel. Your freckles are landmarks to be explored. Your eyes and the sound of your breath are the signposts, the traffic lights, and the caution warnings. And still I would walk off the cliff to find new places. And I would travel the paths back to safer ground and to where you are.

The Man in the Station

Dog Days

To The Lady on the Train,

We are in a heat wave and with the lake effect humidity, it is oppressive. The torpid dog days of summer are aptly named and my black furred, four legged companion pants and dawdles behind me when normally he is eagerly leading the way. We slow our pace since we have no worries of time or better places to be. 

I feel the press of the sun’s rays and the  weight of the air makes walking feel more like swimming. And as usual, you come to my mind and I find my escape. There were times walking beside you, marble floors beneath us, and I swear that my feet did not touch them. Gravity had no hold on me then and I was 10 feet tall. 

And now I hold the memory of you like I would hold your hand, soft and strong and a contained tempest. Even now I can throw off the bonds of earth’s gravity to rise above this heat and feel the way I once did. 

The dog looks at me quizzically and I am pulled back to earth and the press of hot air rising to meet me. His dark brown eyes say that it is time to return home. He is, of course, right. 

The Man in the Station

Spring grey

To The Lady on the Train,

The trees have greened at an astonishing rate and the lawns suddenly insist on a cut.  This spring has sprung with an urgency that has startled me and I feel like I have yet to catch up with it. 

The days have traded weather back and forth, alternating sun and rain, chill and heat. I never know what to expect. Today it is cool and drizzly with the air promising a heavier rain. The sky sits low and has swallowed up the downtown towers of the city that I live in. 

I will head into one of those skyscrapers where today the sky scrapes back. I will ascend into those clouds and disappear with upper half of the building. I too will be swallowed up by the sky. 

The view from the windows of the tower will have shrunk and the close horizon will end in a soft grey wall. There will be no blue lake, no green ribbon of a valley that cuts through the east side of the city. But in the taking away of what is there, I am free to imagine my own world that may be just beyond the grey flatness. 

To see you smiling in the sun, I have only to look past these clouds.

The Man in the Station

All it took is all that there is

To The Lady on the Train,

All it took is all that we know and all that there is. 

From a singularity that expanded and cooled in the Big Bang, a universe was born.

And it only took 13.8 billion years of stars forming and exploding so that their scattered dust could coalesce into our little solar system in our little corner of a galaxy somewhere within this wonder of a universe. Then all it took was for our little world to form and to grow life until it finally reached until now. 

Only now has the universe been able to express it's highest potential in the making of you.

I do not have to give you the world or the moon or the stars. 

They have been here just for you all along.

The Man in the Station

Breaking Down

Verse

If you don’t love me just pretend

For the short ride in the car

Hold my hand the way you used to

The few kilometres aren’t that far

Chorus 

We can’t be broken

I don’t want to let go 

and neither do you 

How’d we end up here

We aren’t broken just yet

We can’t be broken yet

Verse

If you’ll just hold on to me

Then I can hold myself together 

We’ll just drive over these hill

And get us through this weather

I wasn’t ready to let go 

but didn’t know how to hang on.

So it’s roads and rain and us

But I know that your already gone. 

Let the asphalt roll under our wheels

And let’s get through the day 

‘Cause I know what my heart feels

And I know what it would say

As we ride toward somewhere new

Hold my hand and we’ll both pretend 

That we’re both still in love and at beginning 

That we’re still in the middle instead of the end. 

What I did not do but should have done

To The Lady on the Train,

I walked hallways and sat in meetings where I had to pretend that all my attention wasn’t being consumed by a white blouse or the swing of a dress. 

I noticed unnoticed the slant of shoulders, the shape of her eyes, and the playful smile that seemed to ring  something inside of me. 

I sometimes had to speak as if my heart wasn’t pounding and my words weren’t jumbled before they left my mouth just because she sat in a chair or stood up or moved papers on her desk with slender fingers. 

I had to not call out or crumble as she walked past and the world disappeared until it was only her folded arms and sway of her hips. 

I thought that I had to not do all those things. 

But her beauty was all I did see and she didn’t know it. 

It is all I still see. I hope that she know it.

The Man in the Station

She does not see

 To The Lady on the Train, 

She looked down at her hands and what she did not notice was the slender strength of her fingers or the ovals of her fingernails. She did not see the softness of her palms that cup love, nor did she really pay attention to the callouses that prove her hidden steel. 

I do not know what she saw through her eyes that sometimes see so much. But my eyes saw the graceful arch of her neck, roundness of cheek, and the line of her jaw. I saw a woman who is more than she sees. 

The Man in the Station 

Coming through winter

 

To The Lady on the Train,

Though it is cold, the sky is brighter and less oppressive. The mornings have dawned noticeably earlier and the setting sun lingers just a little longer into the evening. We have come through the darkest part of winter. We have come through days where the sun could not break through the storm clouds, and we have come through moonless and starless nights of howling winds piling snow around our homes and hearts. Yet through it all we put shoulder to shovel and kept putting one cold foot before the other to trudge our way out through a place where we can now sense that soon there will be a spring. 

Some souls despaired and lost their way in the darkness. Some grim souls simply held onto the hope that the light would soon return. Still others held close their own little light and let it carry them through. But my dear, you are the rarest and most beautiful of souls who somehow have their own light that radiates, shining the way for others to take courage from. Even in the darkest of days and nights you gather up what light is available and multiply it out into the world. It is seen in your smile. It is seen in your eyes. For those who are lucky enough to know you, it is the warmth that will see them through any cold and darkness of any winter. 

The arc of the sun rising higher in a blue sky is welcomed, and you have helped to pull people through. And you don't even know it. 

The Man in the Station

I’m a Thief

To The Lady on the Train,

It is early morning and dark when I rise from the bed, leaving a cocoon of warmth and you still sleeping. I will feed the cat and walk the dog and they will be contented. In the kitchen with slow and deliberate movements I will as quietly as possible brew the coffee. Into the bedroom with frosted windows now lightening with the coming dawn, I carry a mug of strong dark and aromatic coffee and set it gently on the table beside you. 

You are still asleep, your wild grey hair splayed on the pillow, an arm crooked above your head, and sheets half kicked off leaving you in a long T-shirt outline of your body. You are beautiful, a goddess in repose, and you are a wonder to see and it is an ache to restrain myself. I am about to turn to leave you to sleep  when you shift and turn slightly. Is it the scent of the coffee that has roused you, the lightening of the room, or my presence that has disturbed you? It is here where your body betrays you by the smile that too late you suppress and the hardening of your nipples against the shirt, and the subtle changed scent of you. You shift once more and a knee is exposed from underneath the bedsheet. An invitation. 

I will play this game; you the sleeping prize and I the lover thief. From the foot of the bed, slowly and almost silently I slide under the sheets. Brushing my lips against your ankles and feet I coax your legs apart just a little more to reach your knees. My fingers trace lines on your calves and thighs and my mouth trails kisses on your inner thighs, moving slowly higher. The scent and warmth of you fill me and I am no longer the thief but a willing slave to your desire. 

My arm curls under your leg, my hand pressed to hold your hip and the heat of my breath on the triangle mound of tight curls and all pretense of sleeping is dropped as you sigh, open to me and your hand on the back of my head draws me in. You are warm honey as my tongue finds your folds and the stiff button that brings you so much pleasure. I feel the rhythm of your hips and the press of you on my face. I feel the tightening and letting go of the muscles in your legs, back, and stomach. 

I want to slow, take my time and savour the waste of you; to stay here for as long as possible, to tease you close and then to back away. But I can feel your desire and impatience for release growing, and I will comply. My tongue will dance where you command and your entire body begins to tense. There is holding on, a moment yet an eternity on the precipice of some cresting wave building inside. ‘Don’t stop’ your body commands me and I obey but only quicken my tongue slightly. And here it comes washing over you, every muscle tight, hold, hold, back arches, and then a full body release. 

My cheek rest on your mound and I breath you in. You sigh and pant, trying to slow your breath and here we rest in the glow. You run your fingers through my hair as I cup your breast in my hand. After a few minutes you swing a leg over my head to lay on your stomach. 

I turn to kiss the roundness of your bum and let my fingers draw patterns on your back, connecting the dots of freckles, soft skin over muscles. My palm on the back of your neck, the tilting of your hips and spreading of your legs as I shift myself between them. Our breaths quicken my lips to your shoulder as I enter you from behind. The press of your bum against my stomach and burying myself as deep into as I can and the desire to be deeper still. We give ourselves over to these ancient instincts and let go any restraints to our passions. We thrust and push and pull and let our bodies rule all that we are in this moment. We crash and clasp onto each other. It is raw and wild and we pant and sweat and we don’t know where one ends and the other begins until we both are spent. We come to ourselves and lay holding onto one another looking deep into each other’s eyes. It’s like we let go and lost ourselves and it is here where we can find ourselves again. I will stroke your arms, cheeks, hips; touching you to make sure that you are real and really here. I fall into your smile and I am lost again. 

I will touch you throughout the day to make sure you are not a dream, or to keep me from floating away from this earth. Or both. 

The Man in the Station 

A body of cruelties and kindnesses

To The Lady on the Train,

I inhabit this body and it has shared with me all of its cruelties and kindnesses. 

The greatest of these kindnesses have been the sensation of your soft skin next to mine, the sound of your sighs in my ear, and to watch the dazzle of stars in your eyes. 

And when this body finally fails me completely and expels this ghost, it is these memories that will haunt me. My body’s cruelties of weaknesses and pains will be forgotten and It will be those moments of my body’s kindnesses that become the chains that I rattle. 

The Man in the Station

Happy Other People's Valentine's Day

To The Lady on the Train,

Today is a day that will be recognized by others as a day to acknowledge and celebrate love. We will recognize it though it is not our day. And even though it is not our day, I cannot help but think of you, remember all of the times that we had, and to be reminded that the torch that I carry for you has not dimmed one little bit.

You should know that you are incredible. You are beautiful. You are loved.

The Man in the Station

At a resort

To The Lady on the Train,

I am in a beautiful hot country. The resort sits on a palm tree dotted beach of a sheltered azure bay that faces out toward the vast blue of the south Atlantic Ocean. The people who look after us are as warm as the days. There is good food, music and dancing and singing; games to play and laughter to share. Well tended gardens and pathways throughout, beautiful swimming pools, and a gentle warm breeze. There is hardly anything more that one could want. Hardly, and yet. 

And yet there is something missing. It is the same thing that is always missing. It is that which has left me with this hole that I carry. It is a hole that is the exact shape of your eyes and resonates at the frequency of your voice. 

It will be a week in the sun and sand, away from the snow and cold that awaits our return North. It will be just one more week with you not where I am. 

The Man in the Station 

Happy Anniversary

 To The Lady on the Train,

“If you could, would you want to go back” you once asked me. 

“In a heartbeat. Would you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

And these things are true. But we cannot go back. 

It was 16 years ago today when first we made love on a blanket spread out on a carpeted floor. We were explorers, not knowing what we would find or how incredibly precious our discovery could be. And we did find something that we did not expect, and in truth, could never have imagined. And even knowing what we found, we somehow could not hold it indefinitely. 

Maybe a part of us didn’t believe it could be true. My suspicion is that a part of us didn’t believe that we were worthy.  We are both broken in some way that makes us doubt this the magic could be for us. But it is for us and it is ours, and it isn’t something that either of us will ever be able to lose completely.  We are that magic, whatever that magic is. 

This, our anniversary, is a day that is shared with an event that is as solid and immovable as granite, and should not be shared; it cannot be shared. I now consider a different day as our anniversary because in many ways it was a day just as important. When we were faced with a hard decision, we chose us. March 3 we spent in a small house that we borrowed for the day. I know that you have replayed the events of that day many times over, as have I.  We stood at the crossroads where every direction held some heartache, but we continued into the unknown even though the safer path would have been to turn back. We were brave that day.  

We have been disbelieving and we have been brave many times through the years and we are still here; we are still in each other’s orbit. I do not know where we will go. I do not know the paths we will take together or apart. I wish that I could see into the future. But I cannot do that any more than I can turn back the clock. And I cannot see the direction you are taking or to what distance it is that you are looking towards. 

I can tell you that I want to find again that sweet sadness that can only come from the knowledge gained by being next to the one that holds your heart; the knowledge that we are all truly alone.  Before there is only darkness, I want to lay beside you to look into the universe in your eyes and feel your warm cheeks with the backs of my fingers. I want to feel the soft brush of your lips against mine and to taste your honey mouth, slow and tender, almost afraid. I want to feel your arms around me and hear your breath and voice in my ear. I want to feel the thump of your heart beating against my own chest. I want to know throughout my entire being if it has all been lost for good; or that by some magic that it has only laid dormant, or perhaps been held down either deliberately or subconsciously.  I want to know if there is some deep buried ember that still glows. I want to be scared and to face that decision again; to raise that ember and fan it to flame, or to let it lie an ember that shall never ablaze. Or even, that there is no ember left.

We have already walked the paths that lay behind us. Whatever the paths before us, we will walk them. 

Come what may. 

The Man in the Station

In a Restaurant

 

In a small restaurant on a cold and windy January, I find myself sitting across from a beautiful woman who does not know all that she holds. There are perhaps 8 small tables that will seat 20 people at most but we are the only people here aside from the chef; the place is all ours and it is perfect. 

The sky darkens outside the north facing window and all of the remaining light has settled on her. The outside has disappeared, leaving only this small room. Then shrinking, the rest of the room falls away, leaving only this one small table and all the remaining light shines from her face. There are no other sounds but for her laughing voice.

A universe in the shape of a woman collapses space and with it time. For me a moment passes, yet beyond the gravity of this table hours have flown by. Having already fallen into her eyes I ached to take her hand, but never would I have the strength to ever let go; the pull of her being too great. 

When finally we leave to walk back to the car, the universe extends no futher that our imidiate circle along our path. Or perhaps it is the sidewalk that moves beneath my feet for I cannot feel the earth. It is not until she departs that the rest of the world is released for me to sense. Cars, people, streets, and streetcars come back to my awareness, and I am left empty.

She is not aware of all that she holds; she has no idea...

Merry Christmas

To The Lady on the Train,

It is early Christmas morning; cold, quiet, and still.  The houses up and down the street  are silent with darkened windows though they are outlined with strings of coloured lights which brighten the snow covered lawns.  It’s the magic hour when the world holds its breath, heads still on pillows, waiting for them to slowly rise one by one.

And they shall wake on this Christmas morning. Children in frantic anticipation and excitement with their high pitched voices waking their parents. Others will wake more slowly and drink coffee under dimmed lamps, warming to the day ahead. There will be hugs and kisses and gifts exchanged; and Santa will have visited. And it will be magic. 

I hope that when you wake on this morning that you find fulfilled the wishes you didn’t even know you made. I hope you find magic. 

Merry Christmas 

The Man in the Station 

The Longest Night

To The Lady on the Train,

The longest night of the year would not be near long enough if I could spend it with you.

The Man in the Station

In a restaurant beside the highway

So you know…

Whenever I see you it is never the same. There are times when we are more intense and other times we are more casual. Sometimes we joke and sometimes we are serious. Sometimes you are incredibly close and other times you are away. 

But there are some things that remain consistent. I do not know if it is the sound of your voice, or the shapes of your eyes, or the overwhelming desire to cup your cheek in my hand and feel to lowering tilt of your face toward me. I do not know if it is the wonderful tangle of grey pulled into a disobedient wildness, or the line of your neck, or the arch of your brows. Or perhaps it just that you are so close and yet the distance between us is one I ache to close with the taking of your slender hand. Perhaps it is all of these things, but there is something about being with you that fills me up. There is something more than blood that is pumped through my beating heart when you are close. 

As I drive west and you headed east, I empty. It’s like the pulling of the plug from a bath; it all drains out.  I am left somehow hollowed. 

And in truth, I have looked for someone else who does the same thing, provides whatever that magic sensation is. I have tried to pay attention should there ever be a trickle. You are the only clear spring that fills me up. 

You are beautiful and it was wonderful to see you. 

Always. 

Stepping into a winter morning

To The Lady on the Train,

The morning has come bright, clear, and cold; and is in stark contrast to the pool of warmth abandoned in my bed. I have wrapped myself in hoodies and hats and mitts that were kept warm near the forced air vent. Bundled and booted with my four legged companion by my side we step out into the crisp cold, only one of us eagerly. 

Despite my dog’s urgent pleadings, I stand still for a moment. There are only a few brief moments where residual warmth will cocoon you, and I want to savour it. I turn my face towards the thin sun sitting on the horizon hoping that it will be enough to hold off for a moment the bite of cold that I know is inevitable. 

This cocoon of warmth surrounding me is like the way memories of you also hold and comfort me. I am buffered from daily winds that would sting without your warm glow. Even  in your absence I can still feel you. Like the scent of a lover, this blanket of warmth also dissolves, falling from me like mist. 

A tug from the leash and I am pulled away from thoughts and memories of warm beds and warm dark eyes. The tingle of cold on my cheeks wakes me fully, and we walk briskly. 

The Man in the Station 

Laughter Light

To The Lady on the Train,

How is it that the sound of your laughter can outshine the sun?

If ever I am in darkness the thought of the light that shines in your eyes is like the dawn banishing the night.

The Man in the Station

Missing the Scents of You

To The Lady on the Train,

I miss the scents of you. 

I miss the trail of your perfume that would fill hallways and rooms and empty elevators where you had been.

I miss the way that for days my bedsheets would smell of you. 

I miss falling to my knees to press my cheeks into the folds of a dress and feel the parting of your thighs. 

I miss the frantic of hiking up of that dress the press of my nose against the soft thin fabric that covered the centre of you. 

I miss that scent of you that would flood as your body tensed and your back arched and my tongue held you suspended.

And I miss how while I stayed kneeling in front of you, your back pressed to tile, your face would twist away and upward. And then the  pressing and pulsing of you against my face and the relaxing of your knees.

I miss how you would grab my hand to pull me up to kiss me deeply. And how the scent of your hair filled me.

I miss how afterward I would cup my hands over my face and find the secret scent of you still there.

I miss the scent of you just being there.

The Man in the Station

I have not the words

To The Lady on the Train, 

I do not know what words to use that could ever describe your beauty. How could lines of ink on a page ever come close to showing how the lines of you change the beat of my heart? 

How could the pressing of keys on a keyboard ever convey the press of your gaze and how one is filled and emptied at the same time. 

There is no photograph even that can match the light that you shine. 

Though I lack the tools and the ways and means, I will try to find a way to show you just how amazing you are. 

The Man in the Station

The Last Sign of You

To The Lady on the Train,

I bent to inspect a crack in the tub
A dark thin line against white porcelain
My bare feet on cold black and white tiles
But my hand pulls away a long strand of your hair.
 
I hold this secret curl of you in my palm
It had been weeks since you were in our sanctuary
I used to find strands of your hair throughout my world
And feel your presence in every corner
The scent of you filled the bed sheets
 
A dark thin arch against white skin
Holds a weight of years
Holds the sway of all my thoughts
And this, the last strand, has cracked porcelain and me

The Man in the Station

I know

To The Lady on the Train,

My thoughts are with you as always.

Only a heart that loves is one that can break, and it's love that lasts forever.
 
We measure the passage of time in love and not in the heartache.

The Man in the Station

 

Gifts

To The Lady on the Train,

There is a drift of sweet wood smoke from a stove and a warm kitchen scent of baked apples. 

There too is gathered bunches of drying lavender and maple sap boiling down to an earthy syrup. 

These gifts from nature all fill me. 

But none as sweetly and completely as your kiss. 

The Man in the Station

Against the Wind

To The Lady on the Train,

Today I will run further than I ever have so far. I will pound my feet into asphalt to cover a time and distance that a year ago would have been impossible for me. My knees will ache, my lungs will burn and I will want to stop. 

I am no longer a young man. I do not have the body that you once knew. Gravity and time are winning this fight. But I am not rolling over and lying down. 

I will continue to prop up the scaffolding of my bones. I will squeeze out what strength remains in my diminishing muscles. And I will continue to look out through my eyes behind this ever wrinkling and sagging face. 

I am still here but I fear that what you see is falling down of this body; the weight, the wrinkles, the sag of my cheeks, and the grey beard of an old man. Youth is wasted on the young. 

I will run and I will push to find my limits. I will not go out without a fight. And I will hope that sometimes you might be able to catch a glimpse of the man that I once was. I’m still here. 

The Man in the Station 

Happy Birthday

To The Lady on the Train,

I wish that I had the words to express all that I want to say but they would utterly fail. So I will simply say this:

Happy Birthday to the most amazing person I know. You are loved.

The Man in the Station

All the Light from all the Stars

To The Lady on the Train,

Even if we were standing under a kaleidoscope canopy of stars, I would see only you. 

Should I be able to gather all their light in the palms of my hands, still they would not outshine your eyes.

All the light from all the stars cannot compare to you.

The Man in the Station

Scent of a Woman

To The Lady on the Train,

How to describe all the complex and conflicting emotions that one can experience all at once is a problem for which I do not have the language. So I will tell you as simply as I can, and you will have to imagine the parts where I fail.

I do look for you in every crowd even though I know that you could not possibly be there. I look for you in every woman I see. Can I find the line of your jaw from your small ears to your chin? Do the straight back and sway of hips resemble you? Can I see your sharp shoulders and swing of your arm and your slender fingers somewhere among the people around me?  

This morning I was taken completely by surprise and almost overwhelmed when a woman stood beside me on the subway.  Curls, a partially tamed riot, pulled back and tumbling; a downturned gaze into a book and not knowing that she has an affect just by being there. But what almost brought me to my knees was the drifting scent, unmistakable - Essential oil blend #6. And suddenly I could almost imagine that you were standing beside me. And I could feel the gaping emptiness of this stranger not being you. 

I wish that I could tell you every thought and emotion that crashed through me. And all because a woman with curly hair and a perfume stood beside me. I can't though. I do not have the language; no such words exist. But some of what came flooding were times when we walked beside each other, when I held your hand as we drove, hearing your voice in my ear as we sat in a theatre, and the feel of your limbs along my own. 

And I remember the way that scent would completely fill me, bring me to my knees, and lift me to the heavens. 

The Man in the Station

Full of Stars

To The Lady on the Train, 

The constellations of freckles on your skin are just the first hint that you hold a universe within. Looking in your eyes, one knows that you are full of stars. 

The Man in the Station

Autumn Dogs

Fall equinox has passed and the tilt of the earth is now beginning to move away from the face of the sun.
The trees have noticed and started to shed; red and yellow leaves are plastered to the asphalt and pavement.
A dappled mournful beauty beneath us and a thinning canopy above us. 

Dying into winter can still be beautiful.
 
The morning dawns later and the night curtains earlier. This will continue until just before Christmas when we swing a quarter turn more on our orbit.
Temperatures are cooler and rain on the tin roof sounds like a distant applause.
The dog walks that bracket my days are now in wet darkness. We move like limp ghosts between pools of streetlights, at least one of us smelling of wet dog. He thinks that it’s me.
 
Once home we will drip in the sunless front sunroom and partially dry the weather off us.
His bed on the floor will hold the comforting scent of a warm wet dog.
 
And I will shed until I stand naked to lean and turn under a hot shower, glistening in artificial light. 

The autumn of my life can still be beautiful too.

Day and Night

To The Lady on the Train, 

So you know, the sun and the moon and the stars all shine their light just so that they can see you. 

The Man in the Station

Summer Night

The air lay hot and heavy on the city; a late summer night that stills. The kind of night where dogs and people are restless and lazy. Sleep will not be easy and familiar noises sound strange. The barking of a dog and the mournful whistle of a train roll in through the open window above my bed. It was a night of memories, dreams and sweat.
 
I was dreaming about a woman that I know and to whom my heart still belongs. I was dreaming about the times when we made love, when we gave ourselves freely and held nothing back. I was dreaming of my fingers trailing across freckled shoulders, soft and strong.
 
And I was dreaming of the press of a hardened nipple and soft breast in the palm of my hand. I was dreaming of the widening of eyes and the pulling by her calves as I entered her. And it is here were I drift between sleep and awake and I can no longer tell if I am dreaming or remembering.
 
And between cold sweat and damp sheets I am haunted by her beauty and the best and worst decisions of my life. I can almost feel her body next to mine and the scent of her filling me. I can feel the rumble of distant thunder and the ache of not holding her now.

A Fool Such As I

To The Lady on the Train, 

I did not realize just how much you gave to me. 

I did not realize just how much you taught me. 

I am sorry that I did not see that at the time. 

I am such a fool. 

A confession…

No matter where or how I have looked for your replacement, there is none that come close to your equal. No one comes close. 

The Man in the Station

African Dream

To The Lady on the Train,

We stand on the edge an escarpment looking over the vast expanse of the grassland savannah below us. The westering sun sits fat and low on the horizon bathing the world in an orange pink glow and stretching our shadows behind us. Dust on our bare feet and hot air on our faces, we breath and cannot do more than take in what we are being shown, to be witness to the sounds and sights of this place and time.

A breeze picks up and blows your gauze white blouse and skirt to press against the front of your body and billow out behind you, and in this moment you look like a statue carved out of marble. A study of motion caught in magical stillness. 

From the wide valley below us and the great plain behind us the sounds of crickets and birds surround us. It is a wild symphony that drones and yet changes, a sea of sounds through the distant heat shimmer, we watch a great herd of animals move past the Acacia trees. The zebras, wildebeasts, and buffalo, and giraffes move along paths that their ancestors have carved into this earth. They follow the migrations by a memory made by thousands of years of their ancestors moving across this place.  The ebb and flow of seasons and beasts across this landscape for eons has shaped this savannah and those that live upon it. They have shaped each other, they are connected in a way that cannot be untangled. And once, our ancient ancestors might have stood here and marveled at the living earth below just as we are now. They may have travelled on those same paths following the herds, and they an integral part of the cycles of life and death. The depth of time is incomprehensible, but it is felt. 

We have reached through distance and time to come to this place, to watch the land breathing through centuries, never changing and yet never the same. We are just the next small link between the past and whatever future is to come. This moment is ours to hold, the catch between inhale and exhale. Of all of the foot prints upon this land, ours are only the most recent and soon will be erased. But we will always have been here. The land will always be a part of us just as we are a part of her.

I turn to watch you, to look upon your face. And the sunlight glows upon your face, showing the dust on your eyebrows, the sweat at your temple... I can see the lines of a life lived with joy and sorrow, not unlike the trails made by migrations... I see the brilliant dark focus of your eyes on the distant miracle playing out below where we stand.. I can see the wonderment and the swelling of all the big feelings filling you up... I see the way your breath is catching and the blood rushing below your freckled skin.

You brush a bead of sweat from your forehead with the back of a sand covered hand, leaving a rust brown smudge above your eye. Your hair is a disarray and wild and some sticks slick on your cheek. I see all this, but what I notice is the smile that does not come to your lips. The joy is too deep for such a superficial showing, the wonderment too encompassing for full comprehension. The impossible age of the earth and the greatness of the expanse presses its weight upon the smallness of us and our short time into our consciousness. 

And the lines on your face, the earth on your skin, the sweat that has beaded at your temples - in this moment and in this place - I too am filled with with feelings too big to easily hold. I am struck by the way the magic of you has pressed upon the smallness of my being and my life. I am struck by the way you have carved your own path onto parts of me where no one has before tread. You are etched on my heart through the ebb and flow of our own short seasons.

The sun dips lower and the temperature drops. The smile finally comes you your lips and you turn your shining eyes toward me. We turn and you take my hand. And we walk back to the cabin, our shadows on the dry grass stretched before us. 

The Man in the Station