chances are, i could probably see you in that same subway, still wearing your favourite hoodie, holding the paper cup coming from the nearby coffee machine, and your eyes will still be expressive as ever—a metaphor of million stars under summer night. maybe, that moment will make me hide my face from the pile of books i have in my hand, i’ll pretend playing the train tickets i have to make me forget that moment you draw infinity signs at my journal. maybe, you’ll stand still waiting for the train, not even looking around for maybe, you are afraid to see me still with my messy bun, faded blue jacket, and tangled earphones in my ear while memorizing Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
i could probably see you. and that moment, i hope you know that i am still here, still seeing you from these train tickets i have kept in between of pages, still tracing the touches of your palms in the insides of me, and still counting the lonely nights we spent just to listen to our mellow heartbeats, and to our hearts crazily breaking in pieces. i’m still trying to decode the things in between of your gasps and uncertainties that you kept hidden from that drawn infinity, and i’m still listening to your favourite songs every time i’ll take a ride back home, calling all the saints to make it as a lead to your soul.
and again, i could probably see you as just like city lights, warm afternoons, and underrated art—smiling through a phone call by hearing the horns of approaching trains, you will compose yourself and get into it. and of course, i will just watch you inside, slowly then hurriedly moving away. and just like before, i will miss the train again. perhaps, it’s because i can’t still find my way back home.
i can’t still find the way to finally move on.
— 17:55 l. sin, moving trains
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from ИAP 'S
