Platform in the Fluorescent Dark

The last train pulls away with its cargo of strangers, and I'm left on the platform, holding the shape of a conversation that already feels like a dream. Your voice still echoes in the fluorescent dark.

A single thread catches the afternoon light— silver, impossible, it spans the distance between what was said and what wasn't. The smallest weight is still a weight.

Distance is just another kind of presence, the way silence is another form of listening. We are connected by the space between us, held together by what we choose to remember.

The platform empties. The light fades. But something persists in the cooling air— not hope, exactly, but its patient sister, the willingness to wait.