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"Waiting on the train" & "Saudade" by Arlo Arctia

waiting on the train.


i missed my stop on the metro about five exits ago, 

somewhere between Pentagon City and King St.,

but i have no desire to return home.


i’ve been finding companionship

in the proximity of strangers recently.

people who will never know me or recall me- 

yet will live inside me, momentarily,

as emotional relief. 


i can just stay here. 

let the stations greet me, 

and wave goodbye-

and in gentle warmth, i can let myself 

relax into the scenery-

submerge into the cushions

as if i’ve always been part of them,

tuck myself- in inner silence—


i imagine on the train, 

i am the passerby

of many lifetimes,

including, my own.


like a loose shadow, blended,

but not yet faded,

i spectate the fleeting guests,

the quick sights of the underground,

their muddy textures, rocky lines—


but if i look too long, mindlessly stay,

i risk every station, feeling the same-

i’ll lose track of where i’m going,

and the distances too-


i’ve begun to learn,

absence doesn’t feel 

the same as escape,

and often, the clock

can make the distance

and reality conflate.


though, it still tends to lapse on the train,

and in my mind, i’m always timelines away-

head rested upon the windowsill,

eyes, hauntingly returning my gaze,

still conscious enough for comfort,

but far enough way, to teeter the lines-

of rumination and introspection.


i often sit and think,

it’s somewhat counterintuitive

to find solace on a bustling train-

a train decorated with seats discolored 

like flour-stained T’s,

tracks as loud as locusts,

and rides against airs with the pressures, 

of neptunian winds.


but the noise, is much better, than the 

intrusiveness of loneliness. 


i can’t bear the quiet. 

these days i’m not sure if 

the silence is talking to me,

or if i have begun talking to it.

the travel allows me to escape-

and on the metro, i look with certainty,

there’s someone here who feels the same—

someone who has probably 

sat through just as many stops,

passed by just as many people,

found just as much solace,

confronted just as much pain. 


just one more stop,

and i’ll pen this day. 


i was lonely until i felt your warmth beside me, 

and i don’t know when i’ll ever find my comfort being alone, 

but until then, i will hold on, to those distant faces 

passing torches to their replacements as they go home. 

——-



saudade.


city lights cascade the night,

strong aromas of booze savor

the winds as they drift away-

but soon, they resurrect

from our breaths- our mouths

vials of liquid poisons-


parties behind alleys,

bleached blonde brows,

cat eyes, glitter streaks,

studded boots, and sweat

like moisturizer glossing each face-


raves in backyards,

flashing strobe lights,

a rainbow collecting souls,

and we dissect, into rows

of ultraviolet rays-

-


there’s a boy, lit in indigo-

peering towards me-

distant, but close.


he reminds me of him.

his manners reminiscent-

and in a dance, bodies

syncing like waves,

i submerge into him.


his kiss on my lips,

press a secret-

he confesses he’s lonely

and has lost his way-

i tell him- i feel the same.


and in silent agreement,

we proclaim, affection for a night,

is all we need to quench

the thirsts of yearning.

and we, ring out lust

in a stranger’s home.


every touch a desire

for a past love, 

a fantasy of replication.


but in the heat of the moment,

i remember he is a mystery too,

and our names, pseudonyms,

hide our shame.


broken for different reasons,

we align, before we separate,

and once again, we search for the next wilting leaf

trying to turn a night into sufficiency.

and i, in my chaos, plant myself in misery,

too dependent on escapism for sanity.


at my best, i’d declare tonight is the finale-

and with the strength of goliath,

move forward- but i have not

yet dodged that stone.


each sorrowful release,

a vapid seamstress to heal

my needs, bandage my vulnerability.


so my eyes wander-

they contemplate escape-

but when the lights return,

blue chooses my face-

and once again, so does his.




Arlo Arctia (they/them) is a 22-year-old poet and English major living

in Washington DC. Informed by introspection and life experiences,

Arctia finds their insight through emotional exploration and the

unknowns. Through their Instagram poetry account and Substack,

@arloarctia, you can find their personal works and conversations.


Komen


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