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I’m tired of taking the train that always arrives,

the one that doesn’t halt in a blizzard for you to meet his eyes,

the drifting snow covers all of the signs.

I’m tired of arriving to rooms filled with the wrong people,

the lively chatter in the carriage deepens to a ripple,

and I pick my spot next to an empty easel.

I’m tired of choosing the wrong song for a twirl under the chandelier,

so the man resting their feet on the spot that saw me disappear,

his name I’ll never hear.

I’m tired of shouting at the top of my lungs,

for the champagne glass slipping from my gloves,

to hit the floor and shatter into breadcrumbs.

I’m tired of arriving to a seating chart decided back in January,

while being asked to lean on possibility,

when I feel like my worth depends on proximity.

I’m tired of seeing the fire catch,

when holding rhymes between me and the match,

and wondering why all the names turn to ash.

but the train always arrives.

and sitting next to the easel where something now shines,

I sharpen my best metaphors for the color of his eyes.

but the train also leaves something to chance.

and the chandelier that saw his stolen glance,

twinkles for the man who picks his best colors for the sound of my laugh.