for her, this is

The tiresome walk down to the tunnel,

the heavy lumbering in my feet,

the way my eyes drifted from

one side of the stairs

to the other as if

I were looking for something

that wasn’t there.

These are the moments

right before you’re about to

sleep the sleep

of gods

when no one believes

in them

anymore.

 I could hear the traffic

overhead on the street.

Horns blasted out

righteousness

at every corner.

No one

is more important

than the person

behind the person

who is belting out blasts

from an electronic horn,

prompting everyone within earshot

that he has somewhere to go;

somewhere very important.

The deeper I ascended into the subway,

the quieter the horns became.

A new sound erupted,

a sound of fierce expectation

and lustful reserve.

These new noises

gathered into a continual voice

proclaiming its need

to move forward,

to get beyond the bustle,

to break free of all

the other voices

that clamored for freedom

of one another.

Men and women in suits

flirted

with expectant glances,

wanting nothing more

 than to move on

and get away.

They smile sometimes,

they nod at other times.

They are graceful

and courteous

when time permits.

But there’s no mistake:

they want out.

I was groggy,

but level headed

as I shuffled along

behind them,

bumping into some

while sidestepping others.

It’s like a dance

from which

we can never

break:

a waltz of retribution,

 confusion,

and teenage angst.

I’ve been awake for too long.

I’ve been pushing my way

through

for what seems like eternity.

I have bags under my eyes

and a slur to my step.

My mouth is dry

and my lips are chapped

from too much whisky.

I continued through

 and made my way to

the lines

for the train.

I waited for the

shake and hustle

in the subway

along the last track

out of Penn Station.

The smell of urine

was heavy in the air

and I could have sworn

that everyone was staring

at me.

Even the slightest sound

made my heart

jump.

 I cocked my head

over my shoulder

and peered out

behind me

to make sure

I was relatively safe.

No one is ever safe in the subway,

and no one ever

admitted that

unless they were sure

they wanted to die.

I didn’t want to die

so I kept my opinions

to myself.

Along the walkway,

the tiles trembled from the vibrations

that seemed forever away.

This is the most desperate moment

while waiting.

This is the time where time,

itself

seems to stop,

flutter backwards,

and continue for a few more seconds

before it dips back into oblivion.

It had occurred to me that this is,

indeed what it must be like

to wait for your final breath.

The trains never stop in New York.

They just keep going

whether there’s anyone on them

or not.

They don’t care for passengers

and the passengers don’t care for the trains. Everyone likes it that way

and so it has never changed.

I fiddled in my pockets

with a candy wrapper.

An indefinable need

surged up

within me that

that wrapper contained

something,

even the tiniest bit

of sweetness within its glistening,

crunchy

exterior,

but no such luck was to be had.

I planned to get something

to eat

when I got out of the subway,

but the way things were going,

I might have died in there

that morning.

Maybe,

some years after,

my body

would be found mummified

along with all of the others

who had succumbed

to subway fatigue.

I could hear

the screech

of the breaking train,

turning to a whistle

that made my knees weak.

Anxious bodies adjusted in line,

turning this way and that

to the promise of an uncomfortable seat

and the smell of tired feet.

I glanced to the woman at my left and she smiled in return.

The edge of her mouth

curled

upward

and her eyes narrowed

before she looked away

in an awkward way

that made me feel like a kid again.

There was no telling

what might have been going on

in her mind

at that moment,

no way to justify my next move.

Her hair was in a neat bun

on the back of her head,

poking upward like an antenna

toward the heavens

above the tons of concrete

that loomed overhead.

Her suit was neatly pressed

and the color contrasted

perfectly with the

brown of her skin.

I imagined her black hair,

straight and dark like

India ink

cascading over her taut breasts,

wavering down to her waist

and gently settling

above her ass.

When the doors opened

with a simple whoosh,

she walked onto the train

with purpose,

with an assured step,

commanding note

from all

who

may

have

looked

her

way.

We entered the train

through separate doors

at the same time,

giving me a chance

to look at her again.

Our eyes met

for a brief flash

and I smiled,

looked at her,

took in the shape of her body,

and turned away to take my seat.

She did the same.

Two transitory souls

separated

by a set of

fiberglass seats,

fiddling with their hands

as to not draw attention

to the fact

that they’re thinking

the same thing at the same time

about the other.

I close my eyes

for a second

to take her in.

It’s a little thing I do to remember faces,

to remember the details,

the lines that make them up.

If I were a painter,

I could sketch them all,

complete with frowns

and smiles,

consistent with their history –

a history no one else should know.

I would paint their lives,

color their secrets of pain

and suffering,

of love and loss,

of happiness

and wonder.

Their landscapes

would compliment them,

add to their luster

and give them a place to be.

They would stand

in grand poses

to be remembered

for the triumph that they were.

And this is what I do for her.

This is what I do for her

and her

alone.

In this dream of mine.