Standing at the station
with a ticket in hand,
the sound
of the approaching engine
seems like a jarring
wake up alarm,
I turn to look back
for that one last look,
of what’d for days
felt like home
but was only meant to be
a temporary abode,
There are places
we often leave,
knowing deeply
we don’t want to leave,
for there’s nowhere else
we’d rather be,
Still, we do
waving a pretend ticket in hand
of a train that doesn’t exist,
waiting, for someone to say
stop, don’t go,
you’re already home.
© vidursahdev 2021
