The train slips through the dark like a thought
half-formed,unfinished,
slicing the silence between towns
too small for names,
too tired for dreams.

Inside,passengers lean into shadows,
faces lit by the dim pulse of neon signs
flashing past in a foreign tongue.
Eyes closed,mouths slack,
they drift
between where they came from
and what waits at the other end.

The wheels chant something ancient,
a rhythm older than steel,
older than regret.

Rain streaks the windows
like handwriting from another life.
No one reads it.
No one asks.

This is the hour for leaving things behind,
for silent decisions,
for promises made quietly to yourself
beneath the breath of sleep.

The conductor doesn't speak.
The stars don't blink.
And the world forgets itself,
one station at a time.