|Let me do the math for you:
Your face, turned to the window
At just about 85 degrees,
Still reflects with 90, right back to me
You think your face is hidden
That your tears can not be seen
You think you share them only
With yourself and the night passing by.
I’d like to say something
From across that night train’s aisle.
About how what hurts now
Is just a matter of degree.
Whatever it is at this moment
That reflects upon your face
Someday will turn to 180 degrees
And be safely hidden behind you
But would you share that with me, a stranger,
Who has nothing in common with you?
But this late night train?
And his own aching pain?
Maybe it’s not you who needs me
To take an interest.
Maybe it’s me,
Who needs his own reflection?
© Copyright 2008 Ewright (UN: ewright at Writing.Com).
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