My Third Platform

Song of the Post: Northern Wind - City and Colour

I've been waiting at this train station.
The steam from the stacks and the rusted rails neglected but somehow still intact.
There's a roof and it's cracked and water damaged, the brown residue kind that rots and rots but never actually seems to cave in, but gives you anxiety anyway.
Although usually this station is usually busy, people getting on trains to far away places and to some people this station is their far away place and their scared and excited.
Right now.
It's desolate.
I'm sitting at this bench and the train goes slow now, like old molasses oozing from the jar from 1980 that grandma still has in her bunker/food storage room.
I know on the other platforms there are people hustling and bustling full throttle waiting in lines with headphones in. I'm sitting at this bench and I know I'm waiting for someone to get off of this train. I just don't know who and even though I hold still I'm anxious.
The lights flicker a little, like they're thinking about the same thing I am and they're tired.
That train stops.
Off she walks.
blue skyed and blue veined
this platform of meta cognition is the landing ground for the thoughts of a hopeless boy in hopeless love.

And it's getting dark. 

She dances on the platform now, even though there is no music, like the grande ballet, with her flats and eyelashes and ankles.

I'm just still sitting and this bench wondering how she got here and where she's from and where she thinks she's going.

She walks like rain, and dances like oak leaves.

A smile like thunderclaps.

She walks around like a twisted tree root, gnarled and beautiful. She's here like grass is here and I think I'm here and wooden desks are somehow always there. She's on this platform of my mind like a stubborn mule that supposedly has a good sense of humor, but how do we really tell?

There are these cracks in the concrete and they're sad and threatening. And she dances over them like silk. 

I'm watching her like skin watches hair grow, and knuckles envy fingers, and fingers envy toes and toes envy fingers.
She's on my mind like wall sockets don't think about sex even though they are, technically, a female part.
She's here in my mind like an IPhone in her case
and the second hand misses the minute hand like the minute hand misses the hour hand.
I'm thinking about you like how boys think about sex.
I'm thinking about you like girls think about who texted first, and where he will take her on their next date and what mascara he will like the best, even though he won't notice.
And like boys think about sex.
The white pad on a band aid always thinks about blood even though it makes it nauseous and it couldn't care less whether you bled to death or not, and the sticky party who really cares but can't ever really help that much. I'm thinking about you like the sticky party of a band aid thinks about wishing it was the pad.

I'm thinking about you like geologists thing about faults and judges think about faults.

I'm thinking about you like kids want to be infinite.
I'm thinking about you like infinite thinks about being overused.
I'm thinking about you like my violin thinks about her bow,
and the strings think about practice. practice. practice.

You're here and you're real. Dancing on the edge of the platform in the train station of these thoughts that are dangerous and beautiful. Don't get to close darling, you'll fall onto the tracks.

This is all just a formality though, me telling you to be careful, because even if you did fall onto the rusty tracks you would just dance on into the tunnels. You'd be safe because right now, you are the only train running through this station.

You make me crazy you make me wild.

Love Always, Alex