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

The Sound of Your Name

To The Lady on the Train, 

I want to have your name in my mouth; to let it fall from my lips casual, unburdened by weight.

I want the choreography of tongue and lips and throat to sound your name; to let it dance in the space between us. 

From the breath in my lungs, I want your name to echo in canyons. 

I am an un-rung bell wanting to reverberate your name; to let it take flight. 

The Man in the Station

A Fevered Dream

Angel,

It started as a restless dream that woke me and left me in a sweat, unable to shake all the emotions. 

It started without a word between us but the shared understanding that we had decided to try a new start; that there was more to be explored between us. And in the next moment the overwhelming feeling that came over me was fear of disappointing you. A rush of inadequacy and fear of judgement, judging my own inadequacies, and then the realization that you too might be having some of those same fears. 

My body is not the same body that I once had. A lack of physical intimacy these past years may have left me unable to please you. Has too much time passed, has too much changed? And though I had those doubts about myself, I did not care about any of your changes. I do not care that your hair is grey (in fact, I love it). I do not care if you have gained or lost weight. I do not care if you are as strong or stronger. I do not care if your eyes are as sharp. There is absolutely nothing that time could change that would make me want to be with you any less.

Even as all of the doubts about myself and reasons why not rushed through, I knew that it would not matter. I was standing at the edge of the high dive and the decision to jump had already been made. And in the moment that I ran my fingers across your shoulders, pressed my lips against the back of your neck, felt your curls against my cheeks, and heard your breath as I trailed your spine I knew that whatever doubts I had vanished. 

To feel your soft skin and to watch and feel you respond; to fall into the changing yet familiar rhythms of exploration and wonder, to let the moment and what felt right be our guide was all the reason I needed to let go of all fears. Feeling of you turn toward me, your eyes locked onto mine, the feel of your hard nipples in my palm, and the length of you against me - and the fearlessness of your vulnerability that dispelled any fears. We would explore each other with open abandon and bravery and find again what was dormant. I made love to you. I heard your sighs. I felt you tense toward me and the shaking release of you letting go. I felt you pull me toward you and I saw in your eyes the wonderment and magic that I felt.

I had jumped from a great height expecting to plunged into the deep end but I ended up flying.

And that is what woke me and kept me turning restless. Even now recalling all those emotions I can feel the rollercoaster.

Just me.

Chasing your ghost

To The Lady on the Train,

You don't know this, and perhaps you shouldn't. But whenever I run, I carry you with me. Once the aches and pains of pounding feet into pavement has been masked by the euphoric release of endorphins, dopamine, and adrenalin you come drifting into focus. Once the punishment turns to pleasure, you are there. 

And as the kilometers roll by under my feet, I try to recall the slope of your shoulders and the patterns of freckles that I once could draw with my fingertips. I recall the softness of your skin and the hardness of the muscle and bone below the surface and I drift into that same wonderment of the impossible contradictions that you are.

I try to remember the arch of your back, roundness of your backside, and the straight lines of your limbs, the line of your jaw, and your small bowtie mouth. I run through the mists of memory and time to relive the feel of your curls on my cheek, the sound of your sigh in my ear, and see the bright darkness of your eyes. Running, I can recall the scent of your perfume and your skin. And I am no longer running but back in a room with the sun slanting in across white sheets and I am consumed by the way you fill me up.

And there are not enough kilometers, not enough roads or trails, not any distance possible that would be enough to set you down. I carry you with me in this running dream knowing that once I stop it will slide from my grasp like trying to hold sand. But there is always the next run and a further distance. It is the best reason to keep running; it is the reward for the chase.

The Man in the Station

Dance

To The Lady on the Train,

Even should the entire world be watching, I would dance with you like no one else exists. 

The Man in the Station

An Unfair Truth

To The Lady on the Train,

It was so long ago and it may be unfair. 

And you probably won’t believe me anyway. 

But when I first learned that you were engaged, I was disappointed and jealous.  Even though I had no right to be, but there it is. 

From The Man in the Station

Holding onto Sand

To The Lady on the Train,

Ten years ago on this day, it was warm with a sunny haze that clung to the earth and our skin. We made love in the morning and then we drove west along 401. We would have held hands and talked along the way.

We walked around the small town to look for food and then we saw the musical for which we travelled the 3 hours. The tickets were a gift to me from you, and maybe you felt obligated to be there.

It was a good day in the midst of a difficult time for us, and it would be the last day for me to hold you.

I remember this day with bittersweet emotions, but I think, mostly with a sadness.

We were at a falling apart and not knowing how to not let it fall apart. This day was the last of the sand slipping through fingers, and no matter how tight you try to hold on, the sand only runs faster. 

The irony only strikes me now - us holding onto sand and the hero of the musical trying to hold onto his relevance and vigour. We are all changed by time and there is no going back.

But there is always forward. 

And for us, there is always an always.

Always,

The Man in the Station

I see you

To The Lady on the Train,

I see you. And you are beautiful.

But you are more than just beautiful. You are strong and you are kind. You are the better person and you care more than anyone else I know. 

You are strong enough to be vulnerable. Your vulnerabilities make you stronger. 

The Man in the Station

In a small restaurant...

To The Lady on the Train,

I could tell you that you are beautiful,

            But that would fall short of the truth. 

I could tell you about the shades of brown in your eyes as you sat across a small table by a westering sun lit window. 

I could tell you about your curls; wild, barely contained, over your ears and how they fell like a waterfall on the back of your neck to your shoulders.

 

I could tell you about the lines of your throat from your small ears to your collar bone and the slope of your sharp shoulders.

 

I could tell you about the flow of your wide necked blouse and the vulnerability and strength it reveals.

 

I could tell you about how your tanned forearms rested on that small table and the slender taper of your fingers.

 

I could tell you about thinking about the strength of your back and the angles of your shoulder blades and the last time my fingers traced the patterns of freckles.

I could tell you about the narrowness of your waist and the flare of your hips.

I could tell you about the butterflies that you kicked up in my stomach and the way you make me feel taller.

I could tell you about the sound of your voice that the way your hands moved through the air when you tell me the stories that need to be told.

I could tell you that like a magnet swings a compass, my world spins to a new orientation when you are close.

I could tell you these things and the words would utterly fail. 

So I will simply say this:

            You brighten the small restaurant more than any sunshine. You change the room with your own light.

The Man in the Station

 

Total Eclipse

To The Lady on the Train,

You have the only heavenly body that eclipses all my thoughts.

The Man in the Station. 

The Shape of Water

To The Lady on the Train,

The human body is made up of about 70% water. 

When I look at you, I know that the other 30% of you must be made of magic.

There is no other explanation for how water could look so beautiful.

The Man in the Station

Happy Our Valentines Day

To The Lady on the Train

Though I can remember the days and the events, and I can map a trail from then until now, that is only a part of the story. I could point out the signposts, the milestones, and the forks in the road we have travelled. 

The cartography of our journey is filled with hills and valleys, crossing of streams, sailing against tides across oceans, easy meadows, and floating along lazy rivers. And I can tell you that even when we were not on the same path, or perhaps we were even lost, we still managed to hold on to the journey. 

These things I can tell you, but what I do not know, what I cannot seem to articulate, is where that first spark came from. I don’t know what it is that first ignited. I do not know what that very first step was. And I think that maybe I don’t need to know. 

Because what I do know and can tell you is that should all the paths be laid out before me, should every twist, up, down, triumph, and heartache be known, I would still take the paths that let me walk with you. 

The Man in the Station

What I see...

To The Lady on the Train,

What I see when I look at you is the shape of your eyes. From bright half moon to oval pools. From dark embers to pale hazel. 

I see your cheeks, line of your nose, ands the bow tie of your lips. 

I tell you that you are beautiful because you are. But that does not come close to describing you. Today, the sunlight shone on your face and I could see so much more of you… and I was struck and left speechless.  I could  see every lash on your eyes, every hair in your brow, the texture of your cheeks… I will followed the line of your forehead, over the bridge of your nose to the curl of your lip and around the edge of your chin – finally tracing my sight up the line of your jaw to your ear. 

I will let myself fall into the tumble of your curls.  I could hold your face in my sight forever – letting the world turn around us, days turning to nights and back to days…

That is what I see. 

And so much more. 

The Man in the Station

A Thousand Years

To The Lady on the Train,

In a thousand years the maps will have all changed. 

Lands, lakes, rivers, and mountains will have shifted. 

Languages and societies will have evolved. 

In a thousand years this will not be the world we recognize today. 

But in a thousand years, I will still love you. 

The Man in the Station

Never

To The Lady on the Train,

I have never wanted to share you.

I have never wanted to be shared.

The Man in the Station

If ever there were words…

To The Lady on the Train

If ever there were words that made you feel ugly..

If ever there were words that made you fell less…

If ever there were words that made you feel unloved…

If ever there were words that almost broke you…

Know that you are beautiful. 

Know that you are more than enough. 

Know that you are absolutely loved. 

Know that those words did not break you. 

Know that those words made you stronger. 

You are wondrous. 

The Man in the Station

Still…

Angel,

I love you

Like we’ve never hurt 

Unconditionally 

Just me. 

To Sit Beside You...

To The Lady on the Train,

To be with you and to have you so close and so far is the sweetest of torments.

Your are within an arms reach and across a chasm.

Under my calm and quiet exterior,

there passion rages.

Do not mistake my stillness as a lack of desire.

It takes all self-control to not take your hand in mine.

It is a fight against all desire to put my arms around you and draw you to me.

It is a great feat of composure to not kiss you the way that I used to kiss you.

Every cell of my being strains to be as close to you as possible; 

to disappear in the universe of your kiss; 

to stop time and to travel the lines and curves of your body...

I only want to hear your voice in my ear and feel the sigh of your breath on my skin; 

To feel the softness and the strength of you and to trace your shapes..

I ache to once again let the scent of you fill me and to fall into that place where you and I are all that exists...

Beside you, always

The Man in the Station

I

Happy Valentine's Day

Not that we have every celebrated this holiday, still, here it is.

So Happy Valentine's Day to you. I hope that you have all the love that you absolutely deserve.

You are loved.

A kiss

To The Lady on the Train, 

Little do you know how desperately I want to kiss you. 

Little do you know how I want to linger when our lips touch. 

Little do you know how my head swims and my heart pounds when I hug you. 

Little do you know how much I want to stay next to you. 

Little do you know that I always need just a little more time. 

Little do you know the ache of missing you all over again. 

Little do you know just how wonderful you are. 

The Man in the Station

I am jealous

 To The Lady on the Train,

I am jealous of the darkness when you turn out the light. 

I am jealous of the moon light that shines through your window. 

I am jealous of the pillow where you rest your head. 

And I am jealous of the moon beam that steals in through your window. 

I am jealous of the sun as she watches you wake. 

I am jealous of the sheets that hold your warmth even after you rise. 

I am jealous of the breeze that caresses the small hairs at the back of your neck. 

The Man in the Station

If you stood...

To The Lady on the Train,

If you stood on a beach made of diamonds under a sky lit by millions of stars, still your eyes would outshine them all.

The Man in the Station

A wish

Angel,

If I could have just one wish granted, 

It would be to watch you fall asleep in my arms, your back pressed to my chest, the scent of your curls filling me…

And then to wake up beside you; to feel you stretch and turn; to feel the softness of your skin and the strength in your body, to trace the constellations of freckles and to hear your sighs..

Just me  

Every year, I remember

To The Lady on the Train,

There are some moments that I will never forget. There are times and places and memories that have been imprinted on me. When I call them up, my heart races, my skin tingles, my vision tunnels, and I am transported back to those moments all over again. 

I remember a comforter spread on a beige carpet. I remember the wonder and astonishment and the sense of being transported. I remember the ebb and flow; the rush and the quiet. I remember discovering for the first time the undulating tides and the wheeling of stars that you somehow hold beneath your skin. I remember how you showed yourself to me and the universe within your eyes. 

I remember the trace of freckles and the contours of your body. I remember the lines and length and the roundness of you. I remember the softness of your skin and the strength of your body. I remember the tension and the release; the aching and the letting go. I remember the taking and the surrender.

Mostly, I remember you standing there, a goddess, eyes shining; and I was lost and found.

Storm clouds may gather

And stars may collide

The Man in the Station

 

I don’t mind

To The Lady on the Train,

I can tell when you have been wandering through my thoughts. 

You always leave toast crumbs in the butter. 

The Man in the Station