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