the last train departs, 2am

I like the long haul, even
the pull of snow on my back, when
everything stills–there’s a memory of you, who perhaps
was once me, a ghost, looking in on glass,
to what happiness–what does the heart do,
a tulip about to shoot through
so much chaos? I like the still between us,
so many, looking for a way to be total, earthly,
honest with ourselves

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