At the gate, at the gate I watch the boys run, their pockets full of virgin toys, still with the wrappings on. Jovially sunsetting, the yellow moon creeps down and dries the tears of Emily, who wipes her snotty nose on my sleeve. Young angel with malta sea eyes, I curb the metaphorical pathways with salty blood, from my heart that stays silent in the muddy bliss. Is this the wakened reality that i must suffer? To perch within the clock of time, the watch that paused. stuttered. stopped. Goodbye my sweet one, can i call you Emily? Perhaps we'll meet again, some rainy day... Don't know where or when, but in the rafe-like windy station, trains rush past like tubular mail- whisking each soul through a tunnel of foreignity. Again, the eyes of Emily play strange tricks on me, as i discover the lofty platform edge reeks heavily of engine oil. sharp and nauseous. "gratias for the good times honey" I raise a hand in parting, wiping a tear from my rusty cheek. Her loose scarf waving back.
