It has ways, ways and means,
stations, platforms, shunting and routing,
tickets folded put away or found and lost,
maps never quite unfold.
We dance logistics of the heart,
arrivals, departures, and changes of lines,
sometimes standing close enough to touch
somehow going somewhere else.
And so much luggage.
The heart sways, sways and leans
across the rhythm of so many miles,
futures, pasts, mentions of stations,
some for me, some for some, some for you.
There are places we could leave the line,
and places best to stay aboard.
Not every beautiful platform
is to be stepped across.
We dance the logistics of the heart,
your ticket yours, mine still mine,
not owned really, but stamped nonetheless,
always more to the line.
And so much luggage.
Some stations are only for a slowing,
and not getting off.
Sometimes travelling beside
a few stops in the rain,
a shoulder warm against,
disappears.
The heart has ways, ways and means,
but no conductor.
Routes we make and alter,
names echo in the distance.
My heart also sways, sways and leans.
And always,
so much luggage.