Rain on Empty Station Platforms

The platforms hold their breath at dusk, umbrellas closed like flowers at night, and somewhere a train whistle bends through the humidity—a voice asking if anyone is still listening.

Water drums its fingers on the tiles. A pigeon tips its head, searching for meaning in the small dark spaces between rain drops, in the way light fragments and reassembles on concrete that has been waiting all week to reflect something beautiful.

The clock face glows like a patient eye. Time means nothing here, or everything— each departure is also an arrival somewhere, each echo of footsteps a conversation the station has with itself about who passes through and who stays, rooted in the sound of water, in the geometry of transit.

I'll move somewhere and leave behind only the shape of my waiting, the curve my spine made against the bench, the temperature of the bench I held. The station will absorb this, as it absorbs every small surrender, every quiet goodbye.