poetry dump — train tracks

I have to remind myself that the waiting is beautiful also.
That the sooner those glistening moments arrive,
          the sooner they depart,
          swept away on the rusty railroad
          that keeps perfect, deafening time,
                     crushing my laughter into flattened pennies,
                     engraving my memories into copper
                                and picture frames and
          I am laid out, spine sewn into
                     the railroad ties,
                     knuckles white against the
                     grumbling rails and

I have to remind myself that blue skies do not last forever.
          And anyway, I miss the rain.
          I miss you, I miss
          having a person
                     as my opposite and companion
          instead of a mirror and some dreams
          crowding out my soul and swarming out
          my time.
I miss having a dance,
          having steps to follow and
          notes to embody. And

I mustn’t forget how I sat at the window
          clothed in night,
                     listening to the rattling brass symphony
                     of my train approaching,
          how I guessed what it would look like
          when it came rolling through,
          how I stayed up all night dreaming
                     of empty train tracks being filled.
I’ve been laying here long enough that
          the grass beneath me has
          grown through my chest, yearning
          for light.
Ants traipse trails through my blood and
          fingertips, they wind patterns through
          my hair and chest garden and
          propose salty toasts in the tracks of my tears and

I’m laughing in the dirt,
          chest heaving against the sky
because it seems so unfair that everything
          leaves,

                     and I can feel my train approaching.

I know I shouldn't be afraid.
The shivering rails keep time with
the pulse fluttering out of my throat and in the depths
of my ribcage
           what will it bring, what will it bring, what will it bring?
          sing the ants.
I don’t know, I whisper,
                     (clutching the rails tighter, feeling the rain,
                     breathing the fear out of my shallow lungs)
something new.