Tracks

I left my muse in tears in Grand Central Station on a thursday morning. It broke my heart to see her like that, eyeshadow smeared with tears, her lip trembling under the black lipstick. The wings on her shoulders hung like prayer flags in the rain. Her fishnets were torn and her boots were scuffed, and she was tearing pages out of her copy of the Tao and setting them on fire with a pocket lighter. She was trying so hard to look bored and jaded, but it just made her look even younger than she was. A train whistle wailing across the plains in the deepest dead of night, moving always farther away, that's what her sorrow was like.

I didn't mean for it to be like that, it's just that when I get anywhere near train tracks I get hungry for leaving. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make her cry. But I think too much when I'm in her arms, and tonight I just wanted to hear the rails sing. I just wanted to chase the sunset. I know when I get where I'm going she'll be there waiting.