Waiting for the Train

Like an interlock of stars,
flesh to flesh, braided freely -
we held on as tightly as we could
even as we saw
the rushing train of truth
blazing towards us.
"We are real," you whispered like a prayer.
"No. We are paperdolls," I countered softly.
"We are cursed."

Those who started
as a game of pretend
often end up with dead hearts
as the avalanche of illusions they built
bury them.
We are a dream,
a beautiful, tragic dream.
"I'm not letting go."
You stared head on.

But I know, my love,
that you won't be sleeping
beside me in the morning.
Denial has always been your weapon,
slashing at an invisible enemy.
As soon as you wake up,
you will run away; you always had the tendency.

But I understand, my love.
We pretended to be young, foolish,
and lived like teenagers -
naive enough to believe that pretensions
can last forever.
So I let you hold my hand,
kiss my cheek,
and tousle my hair.

Because when tomorrow comes,
you won't be at my bedside.
You will be at hers, the first.