Prior to our meeting,
I was not conscious of
the redundant carousel
on which I rode.

Daily, I would
board the crowded train,
hang my arm
from the third handle
and sway
with the stopping
and going
and stopping
between stations.

If others considered
that handle mine,
I was not aware.

The morning we met
started like any other,
until I boarded
to find you
hanging from my handle.

Did you choose it
out of ignorance of
the unspoken truth
everyone else
seemed to know?

The way your eyes
holding my baffled stare,
and the subtle rise of
the corners of your lips,
sent a shiver up my spine.

You had watched
long enough to know
exactly what you were
doing to me.

Your disruption was intentional.

I stepped back,
off the train,
stoically observing
the sudden horror
in your eyes
as doors shut between us.

I realized
as the train
took you from me
and me from you
that you had expected me
to stay on the carousel
riding it with you.

I am sorry
I disappointed you.

I never rode again,
and have never seen you since,
so I have no way to
thank you
by any means you can hear
for rescuing me
from that redundant carousel
I foolishly described as life.

I imagine you at times
hanging from our handle
wishing I was there
riding and smiling
with you.

I wonder if you are still there,
and I feel torn
between contradictions.

One the one hand,
I am flattered by your longing.

On the other,
I want your happiness
more than I want you
to yearn for me.

So I imagine someone
one morning
hanging from your handle
disrupting your
subconscious shuffle.

I picture you stepping back
out of the car,
off the train,
staring back at
who you once were
for me.

In that moment,
you recognize
his tenebrific stare
as the doors close

your life begins



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