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.