Waiting

 

Part of me wanted to follow the wind as it blew 

through the train station into some far-off place 

 

around the street bend. The rest of me, halfheartedly

existing in something you could call the present,

 

wanted to stay right in this spot. I watched myself, 

pathetically, from the other side of the tracks: using 

 

ghosts as anchors in the sea of time, crying only in 

dark rooms and in the rain, wearing too-strong 

 

perfume to mask the scent of shadows, following 

rabbits down holes in hopes of running into you. But 

 

here, where my veins finally untangled themselves 

and the worn concrete felt like a chance, existence 

 

slowed from a panicked sprint to an idle drift. The 

air was no longer forcing itself down my throat 

 

with such vengefulness: it asked permission, and I

could appreciate that. But the winds always change, 

 

and a gentle breeze turned sour wants to push me

over the edge. If I look down, will I fall?