Train, I realize the spectral string connecting this reality and the one with you still in it has become indistinguishable. I watch myself transform the backpack of a random walker into yours–beige with a black square, my name sewn inside the front pocket. I can sense myself disagreeing with myself on whether or not you would wear that coat. Green was never your color. I can hear myself justifying why you are rolling a suitcase through the 34th Street Herald Square station on a Wednesday night. Are you coming back from a work trip? Was it London? Paris? I can catch myself convincing myself that it was you, and the angry expression this stranger wore was one familiarly placed to insult me, validating my double-take.
     Train, I look at other people’s phone screens. They make it too easy. The person to the left of me is worried about their dad. He’s sick. And he’s bleeding. From what? I don’t know, will probably never know. The person on my right is looking through an album of their own nude images. Are they choosing one to send to someone? I know which one I’d pick. Or maybe these pictures aren’t for anyone. I probably should keep my eyes on my book, but I’m distracted by the pink of their nipples. Is this a violation? I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to scrutinize my breasts on a crowded train. The person on the left is scrolling through Instagram, a very quick scroll. Now, back to seeking a status update on Dad. Person on the right is zooming in on their face. I like their red hair. I wish I had red hair and pink nipples.
     Oh no, they caught me looking shhhhhhh
                                                                            hhhh
                                                                                     hhh
                                                                                            H.

   Train, I realize the spectral string connecting this reality and the one with you still in it has become indistinguishable. I watch myself transform the backpack of a random walker into yours–beige with a black square, my name sewn inside the front pocket. I can sense myself disagreeing with myself on whether or not you would wear that coat. Green was never your color. I can hear myself justifying why you are rolling a suitcase through the 34th Street Herald Square station on a Wednesday night. Are you coming back from a work trip? Was it London? Paris? I can catch myself convincing myself that it was you, and the angry expression this stranger wore was one familiarly placed to insult me, validating my double-take.
     Train, I look at other people’s phone screens. They make it too easy. The person to the left of me is worried about their dad. He’s sick. And he’s bleeding. From what? I don’t know, will probably never know. The person on my right is looking through an album of their own nude images. Are they choosing one to send to someone? I know which one I’d pick. Or maybe these pictures aren’t for anyone. I probably should keep my eyes on my book, but I’m distracted by the pink of their nipples. Is this a violation? I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to scrutinize my breasts on a crowded train. The person on the left is scrolling through Instagram, a very quick scroll. Now, back to seeking a status update on Dad. Person on the right is zooming in on their face. I like their red hair. I wish I had red hair and pink nipples.
     Oh no, they caught me looking shhhhhhh
                      hhhh
                                hhh
                                        H.

     Train, they tell me I stand too close to what’s coming, but I don’t. I’m purposefully conscious of being just close enough. I place my feet carefully before the yellow line–never on it–and wait for the lights to peer at me peering back at them from within the black tunnel, to feel the rush of artificial wind slap my face. It’s my moment of easy triumph. But my moment is someone else’s fear.
          Step back!
                  They say.
          You’re too close!
                  They grab my arm.
          I’m still here!
                  I say.

     Train, I realize what I’ve always known to be true: I have never cared for rigatoni. I have never bought this type of noodle before today. My dad would buy them for his self-proclaimed famous dish–pasta with red sauce and sweet Italian sausages, special because of the time it took. He would spend all Sunday in the kitchen–rag over his shoulder as he stirred the sauce, hips swaying to the music on the speaker, intermittent checking of the golf tournament on the television, a soft smile often interrupted. But I could never get myself to conjure up adequate gratitude for this meal. I was tired of rigatoni; the hollowness annoyed me, and I could never agree when people said that it’s the best vehicle for sauce. Everything ends up slipping out the ends anyway. I bought some to cook for myself tonight. I read the label of the package hiding in my tote bag. I also ordered them at dinner last Friday.
     Train, I’m unsure of how I feel about familiarity. I don’t realize how I get to places, and then suddenly I’m there. No conscious causality. Some days I find this to be a comfort. Familiarity shows me that I’m becoming one with a place, a new place made un-new. How do we get here? In more ways, it makes me worry. Habit is disappointing, and disappointment is my most loathed habit. Muscle memory, short term memory, long term memory, implicit memory, episodic, semantic, memory,
                                                   Memories,
                                                           I am not sure about you.
                                                   Your name has been my password
                                                   since I met you because you were
                                               the answer I’d never forget and yet,
                                          each time my fingers spell your name
                                     you are erased, desensitized, adrift.
                              I haven’t noticed until now that time has
                      continued to elapse from when you once were
                              the only answer in my memory, and
                                    for that, maybe I can thank the cycle.
                                          But I’ve never been one to relish in the
                                              persistence of temporality.
                                                 Memory,
                                                    I will remain unsure about you.

     Train, I realize what I’ve always known to be true: I have never cared for rigatoni. I have never bought this type of noodle before today. My dad would buy them for his self-proclaimed famous dish–pasta with red sauce and sweet Italian sausages, special because of the time it took. He would spend all Sunday in the kitchen–rag over his shoulder as he stirred the sauce, hips swaying to the music on the speaker, intermittent checking of the golf tournament on the television, a soft smile often interrupted. But I could never get myself to conjure up adequate gratitude for this meal. I was tired of rigatoni; the hollowness annoyed me, and I could never agree when people said that it’s the best vehicle for sauce. Everything ends up slipping out the ends anyway. I bought some to cook for myself tonight. I read the label of the package hiding in my tote bag. I also ordered them at dinner last Friday.
     Train, I’m unsure of how I feel about familiarity. I don’t realize how I get to places, and then suddenly I’m there. No conscious causality. Some days I find this to be a comfort. Familiarity shows me that I’m becoming one with a place, a new place made un-new. How do we get here? In more ways, it makes me worry. Habit is disappointing, and disappointment is my most loathed habit. Muscle memory, short term memory, long term memory, implicit memory, episodic, semantic, memory,
Memories,
I am not sure about you.
Your name has been my password
since I met you because you were
the answer I’d never forget and yet,
each time my fingers spell your name
you are erased, desensitized, adrift.
I haven’t noticed until now that time has
continued to elapse from when you once were
the only answer in my memory, and
for that, maybe I can thank the cycle.
But I’ve never been one to relish in the
persistence of temporality.
Memory,
I will remain unsure about you.

     Train, I saw an old woman who made me smile – a smile I keep sanctioned off for special moments. She had silver hair cropped like a fairy. She wore purple round glasses and a simple scarf to match, accompanied by a metallic blazer and jeans that were ripped at the bottom, and

     Her shoes!
                       Silver!
                                  Stars!
                                             Shining!

     Looking at her I recognize the desire to be her one day.

                                                                                                     The shoes!
                                                                                                     The stars!

This moment deserved the smile. I carried it with me all the way home, even when the old woman got off the train three stops before me. When I arrived, I had to find out where to get the shoes! The stars! But they were four hundred and seventy dollars. I realized I would never have nor would I want those shoes or those stars.
    Train, I think in circles. On the train, it moves in circles. It starts at its own beginning and it rides to its end, and then its end becomes its beginning and its beginning becomes its new end and its end becomes a beginning. From start to finish and back again – seasons do it, years do it, trains do it. I hope it never stops.
     Train,