There's something about trains that makes people endlessly nostalgic
Like some echo of Gatsby or Kerouac
criss-crossing America
Looking for a past that never really was
I traded one city for another
Left Toronto for Ottawa
And with it left a string of lovers
And friends who promised to call but after a while would find themselves unable
Or unwilling, our friendship becoming something akin to calling estranged relatives
Something you do only to prove – more to yourself than anyone –
That they still occupy some tiny piece of real-estate on the outskirts of your mind
And I knew I'd hate it
Knew that there would be tears
A twenty-year-old reduced to a child of ten years
Wondering why the world keeps going even though I've gone
But I didn't hate it
Not really
Waking up was like starting over
In this place where no one knew me
I like writing alone
Riding the bus alone across the bridge to Montreal
Drinking and thinking alone feeling no need to pace myself or keep up
I like being alone, but I've never been much for being lonely