Platform

by lostmarble


Disclaimer: no, I don't own it, so don't sue me. (Not that I couldn'e take you on.)
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Nothing unusual, nothing's changed
Just a little older that's all
You know when you've found it,
There's something I've learned
'Cause you feel it when they take it away ~Damien Rice
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> He stands on the platform, sun shining mockingly off his scalp like a halo, sticky-hot in his black slacks and burgundy button-down shirt. He is wearing the shirt because it was the first shirt he saw when he looked in his closet (...because it's the one he was looking for, because He likes the color, it reminds him of rich red wine). DAMN!
No, he is wearing it because he likes the way he looks in it and he wants to look nice (for Him.)
NO!
Mental growling ensues.
"He's my friend. I want him to be happy." Not working. New tactic? "It is of no concern to me if he chooses to leave." Better, almost convincing himself. He doesn't realize he's speaking out loud, thinks he's only thinking it, doesn't notice the old woman dressed all in black looking at him oddly from the bench ten feet away. Thinks he's keeping it all inside, the way he'd been taught for years. Reassuring himself now: "anyway, he's not leaving forever, only for a few months. It will be Thanksgiving break before I know it, he'll be home for a while then." Or maybe he'll fall in love with the city and decide to stay. Maybe he'll find something or someone there to keep him...
His face contorts, and the old woman decides he's crazy and looks away, embarrassed for staring. But seconds later, she looks back, and there is a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. He doesn't wipe it away, doesn't seem to notice it's there, so focused is he on the train, barely visible now. The woman nods and looks away again, her face now soft, a little sad. She recognizes this madness, she thinks, and understands it; she has it too, since Frank died. But no, he's too young to feel that kind of grief, isn't he? The loss of someone that means the world...
The young man notices the tear, feels it tracing the premature crows' feet by his squinting eyes. He doesn't move to wipe it away. If he moves, he will feel the wetness on his finger and this will be real and not a dream and he doesn't know if he can take this...doesn't know...
Isn't it supposed to rain when someone leaves you standing alone at the train station? (When it rains it pours...) Perhaps only when they're leaving you for good. Wet drops begin to fall. Salty though, and from his stormy eyes, not the clear blue sky. The sky... reminds him of eyes of the same color mixed with green, belonging to a beautiful face framed by curly dark hair, just like a young god from one of Carravaggio's paintings. That face will never grow old. Never die. Calm yourself. You're being childish. What would your father say if he could see you like this? He closes his eyes, remembers to breathe, and opens them again. His tears drop to the hot pavement, and he swears he can hear them hiss as they hit the ground and shimmer in the sun like stars. He smiles then, faintly, with a fragile calm. "He will come home." Those you truly love can never truly leave you. Eyes widen, and the smile broadens with revelation. Of course.



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