I was running late,
the clock’s callous hand pressing forward,
missed the train—
left me stranded, an hour
lost in unspoken what-ifs.
At the station, alone,
my heart felt like it was breaking—
not knowing
which exit to take,
missed you by a mile, my stupid mistake.
What might have been—
a different story,
a different scene,
if I had chosen differently,
if I had stayed or gone another way.
That day, if I’d connected with you,
would I have met John differently?
Was I running from myself, or toward you?
Unaware of the truth—
to thine own self
be true.
Late for John, but he waited—
silent, kind, patient—
an hour of grace
in his quiet, steady presence.
It made me feel I was worth the wait,
a subtle shift,
a tryst of fate—
a belief that I might be enough.
I didn’t realize I was craving to be seen,
to belong, to shed the in-between,
to break free from shadows of doubt,
from feelings of abandonment,
from the lock I thought kept me out.
Can I say all this—
from two missed trains,
from quiet moments,
from silent pains?
Sometimes, missing a train isn’t just delay—
it’s a path, a pause, a moment of becoming,
a step toward understanding who I am today.