It was a night just after we had gotten our hips.

Mysina is a place I know. Not a town, really, just a juncture.

A one-way ticket for a journey aboard the abandoned caboose.

I’ve been quiet, saving up voice, and now I find myself dreaming again.

We’ve been touching each other’s manias a long time — a long time in this bed.

I am alone, but not lonely. I just remember brushing a lover’s hair.

At the commuter station I call home now, a sign says ‘DO NOT CROSS TRACKS’.