Running

When I’m going away-
I fold myself onto trains
slotting my luggage between gaps-
that seem to shrink as I touch them.
I think about you and glance between the carriages.
But really I don’t know what I’m looking for
it is so easy to get lost;
between the tracks
or the shaky truth of addiction-
trying to fight ourselves.
The ticket machine rejects my change;
as my fingertips spill ink onto time-tables seeking freedom.
And you say “not everyone is running.”
But all I see are people bundling themselves
into carriages, too compact to filter air.

Looking to forget for as long as they can-
the bare cupboards and words that are stuck
in a time-zone of their own- too fragile to exhale;
scared to say what they really mean.
Running in circles of overlapping truth.
And don’t tell me that you don’t want to miss your stop
to gather your bones back together after a day-
of burying your problems under your skin;
and flashing your eyes like warnings.
That time is running out.
An old women stands and two boys
attempt to sleep on a bench at the station-
his older brother tells him that they can’t go home.
Maybe they’re stationary but their eyes are shut tight;
the darkness is a platform away from reality.
And I resolve with the palm of my hand
that I can never let go.