I might be that last summer run away in another metro1,
that in this carriage the sun doesn't come up,
that yesterday you didn't call.
It might be that it is too early and I don't want to go to work,
it might be that your smell doesn't reach down here,
it might be your delays.
It might be that this temporary job doesn't understand
about movie evenings
nor about sunrises.
It might be that it's cold and my knees and the rent hurt,
it might be that you don't live with me yet,
father's screams like pinpricks.
It might be the ETT2, that clenches my fists, that leaves my temples
full of clouds, empty fridges, train scheadules.
It might be that the watch is painful.
It might be because of that that this weary soul
misses you.
Here's my stop.
