Station of the Soul

You were a spark in my childhood dusk,

A ghost in pigtails, perfumed in trust.

We played near the tracks where time folds tight—

I mistook your shadow for eternal light.

My heart became a platform wrapped in prayer,

Waiting for you like a prophet in despair.

Each glance, each laugh, a passing train—

I counted them like rosary beads of pain.

You boarded dreams I was never allowed to ride,

Your eyes were windows, mine stayed inside.

Two trains, two timelines, divinely misaligned—

One racing forward, the other confined.

You became thunder on distant rails,

While I whispered your name through holy veils.

My chest, a chapel, my ribs—pews of ache,

Where your silence rang like hymns that break.

I begged the heavens for delay, for rewind,

But God knows the ache of the left-behind.

He weeps in me with each steel groan,

As I sit in this station carved from bone.

Still, I am not wreckage—I am root, I am rust,

Turning grief into iron, into sacred trust.

I’ll mend these tracks with sacred flame,

Until my breath sings a softer name.

Not all love is meant to depart—

Some stays behind to rebuild the heart.

You were not the end, but a divine disguise,

A train that passed to help me rise.

Let what’s divine unfold, in its holy design—

You weren’t written for me in this lifetime.

May it arrive easily in the next—

A gentler soul, a kinder text.

Until then, I’ll wait not in sorrow, but grace,

Knowing some trains pass, to make sacred space.