Inside, a want that was not known as such.
Outside, a train perforated the familiar blackness.
The iron tide of my childhood.
Behind every window a life.
To watch the instant of passage
and feel sadness fill the vacuum
of other lives not known.
There is no living another life.
To sit among them is only to change
perspective and to wish
to know instead the stories
of every house pinned to the guessed-at hills.
To feel the loss of tales it was never mine to know.
Who can answer when
you do not trust the question ?