I tire of train station kisses,

of waiting for life on hold, but

I watch you speed away


from painted benches.  They

never seem to dry—

not for us,


but give me sleepless daylight,

my brain in the wrong language

where wind sweeps


folds of newsprint across

hardened droplets

I almost smear


luggage of endless flights,

catch my breath:

all I can send you


is here

the end of the platform.

Living air carves stone to sand


our spirits, not yet dry,

like clay beneath these planks.

I can still mold


a new life from here, and

I’ll play our songs

like the kiss of first rain


on windows too far

for my eyes.

For my hands are still


stained with newspaint:

my love, when do we rest?

I tire of running to

live as though already dead.


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