Young man stands
Shoulder propped against the pillar
Its concrete cold, harsh, pock-marked
Echoes his mood
Like the burned tar smoke
That spirals like a dragon
From a hand which hangs,
A pendulum weight within the sleeve,
Detached at his side.
The girl waits
Hair scented with expectation
The flower-musk brushed skin
Alight and aglow –
She knows that he will come
And lay his cloak across her fears –
Painted hues of love
Which grow like the wisteria
Around her heart.
A man forgotten by time
The pages of his days
Scattered on the dust
Like flakes of decaying skin
No testament to the things that passed his eyes
And cut their mark into his flesh
Knows that days are numbered
But he no longer counts
As he waits for welcomed arms.
A restaurant doorway
Arms flung wide like a distant aunt
Two lovers embrace
Clinging to the space that grew between them
Remembering it like childhood
Before they squeeze its life away
A moment that they trust
Will hold them in the perfection that they feel
Their private slice of heaven.
And the trains they come
And the trains still leave.
© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018
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