Last Train Home – a poem

I am waiting for the last train home and you are not with me.
(I wish you were.)

September air waltzes down the tracks and wraps its arms around me.
(I wish they were real arms and those arms belonged to you.)

Lost and found souls come and go; some sharing hushed conversations, others, like me, quite alone.
(I wish you were a figure amongst them, instead of one getting further away.)

Then all at once they disappear – the platform is mine, the city is mine, the night is mine… But you are not mine.
(And I wish you were.)

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