Static

I wait at the train station for the shadow-eyed man in the mysterious tuxedo. I gnaw at the wind with my solemn fingers, trying to make words with gestures. I wait for the bronze train that we’ll take, but I cannot figure out where it will take us. I sit on rusted wood, looking out into the fog for you. Even as the conductor bellows, and the steam screams, I am unable to get up. Rather, I only shift in my impatience. The days pass, and you have yet to appear. I am still at the train station, gawked at by tantalizing portrayals. I hold honey as glue for you, the well-dressed man with our tickets. I wonder when you’ll come, I wonder where we’ll go, and I wonder if it’s my decision to make. We’ve dismembered the fragile state of us once again, and like countless times before, we are unsure and lost. I wonder what I will do when you arrive. Do I welcome you as if nothing happened, or do I refuse your audience? The fog turns to static now as the last train leaves the station. The date has expired on the tickets, and the paper has become rubble. There’s nowhere to go and no one to go nowhere with. I feel like jumping on the tracks now. Maybe you’ll meet me in another world or in tempered dreams. Maybe it would be better to walk to somewhere new, somewhere unknown, but how can I go when the chance of the dark eyed man in a tuxedo walking through the static still exists? I can hear nothing but the whistling of the train, but my eyes are on the horizon. The ruined tickets float away as the fog turns to noise. Everyone has left while I remain, decayed. I am waiting, you aren’t coming. Are we static now?