Cold Fingers

My slightly dulling midnight black dress shoes 
Scuffed alongside the subway tracks
Kicking up dust particles into the air
Mouths were flapping but all sound was taken out
Replaced with the metallic screeches of a human vessel
I could’ve reached out and touched your fingers while you passed, 
But instead,
I traced the edges of worn tile with the toe of my shoe, 
Following outdated patterns and muted colors
Coming to, my head aching from the steel bar cradling my head, 
A note wrinkling under my firm hand grip
I could’ve reached out and touched your fingers while you slept, 
But instead,
I closed the door silently and helplessly drank from an empty carton
The loudest points in time are when you are near, 
And I cannot release the palms against my ears
When your perfume permeates through the ducts and the walls
My knees grow tired and useless and the engine roars like a charging lion
I’ve fabricated you as an older steam train, needing and wanting
And bellowing of smoke and coal
And you live parallel in the modern day, 
As a passenger on a subway train
With the coldest fingers ever known
And a destination out of reach