Sitting at table 62,
I wrote about the secrets.
It rained outside,
While inside the story poured out.
The coffee sat beside me,
As I recalled his face.
The menu lying forgotten,
As I hid with him on the train.
The soft country music playing,
I cradled him in my arms, crying.
The bored and busy waitress,
She didn't about the man on the train.
A slow slurp of my coffee,
As I saw the glint in his eyes fade.
The background channel of conversations,
Ignored how much he had meant to me.
Three years on, at table 62,
I still knew nothing about him.
Settling the bill,
I knew only one thing, he was gone.
Out into the rain,
Masked my tears as I watched him die.