Between Stations

The train slows but does not stop—
somewhere between departure and arrival,
we exist only in motion.

Through the window,
fields blur into forests,
forests into fog.

What we leave behind
dissolves like breath on glass.

The tracks hum their single note,
a frequency only felt, not heard.
We are passengers
in our own becoming.

Outside, a house with lit windows.
Inside, someone looks out
at a passing train,
wondering where it goes.

Neither knows
they share the same question:
what it means to be
here but not here,
present in the leaving.

The train does not stop.
The house fades behind us.
We carry both forward.