The platform

I go to the railway station nearby
after the lone train
has passed for the day.
The track—cold by now,
is the only sign
of movement
where life has paused.
The platform sits in silence
I warm its benches.
My numb fingers
brush the edges of the platform ticket—
heaps of which lie in the room,
all identical
except for the dates.
In the summer gone by
we sat here
stretched conversations
to the length of the track ahead
cut hours to minutes
spent days gasping for time.
And on other days
cattle grazed here
and we just watched…
The tickets exchanged
are days preserved
in the life that later
just stopped.
I go to the railway station nearby
to pause,
and not forget
what I miss.