The whistle's cry cuts through the silence.
The bars bent like broken bones.
Smoke bellows from a gunmetal mouth.
The clouds fade to gray and the ashen air takes their breath away.
The wood underfoot is aged, decayed.
As is the tie of two that stand upon.
Splintered surface, splintered hearts.
Chiseled away by broken promises.
So turn and go, it's time to leave this place.
There's nothing left for him to say.
So turn and go, it's time to leave this place.
There's nothing left for her to say.
His hands tremble, heart beats with unfixed pace.
His conscious, relentless, a painful ringing in his head.
Her hands settle, heart beats with steady pace.
She's jaded, exerted, she needs to rest her weary head.
And so he's left with letters she's always sent.
Handwritten postcards; reminders of way back when their bond was stronger. And her words depicted how the travels were nothing but distance: Their ease serene, the calmest composure, it made them vivid, and it brought them closer.
And so he's left unable to connect what he's lost to the day they first met.
In this calm and quiet, he longs to hear her voice break the silence.
But instead, he is met with her absence.
But instead, he is left with her absence.
And that train rolls farther away, farther away, farther and farther. And with time she grows farther away, farther away, farther and farther.
In this calm and quiet, he longs to hear her voice break the silence.