He waited patiently on the platform, beneath the canopy.
Sheltering from the sleet that cruelly thrashed his weathered face.
His thick layers gave little comfort from the bitter wind.
He shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his overcoat,
And stomped his feet repeatedly to arouse them from their slumber.
The station clock said 01:20.
The night porter had already passed by on his rounds, bringing him a warm cup of tea,
This gladly received on such a chilly night.
He had always taken pity on him.
Nevertheless, never once spoke of her, as if he sensed it was forbidden.
The hours passed little by little
on these cold nights.
Still, he never failed to show.
The urge to see her was too compelling.
He revisited the night it happened.
As clearly as if, it was yesterday.
It was a night just like this.
Rain battered off the street corners.
The howling wind drowned his voice as he called after her.
They had argued about something.
He could not remember what.
If only he had know how fragile she must have been.
He would have ran after her,
Told her how much he loved her.
Now years have passed.
Still he waits.
Willing her to show.
She had promised to come.
But then promises are not always for keeps.
He will wait every night,
Here, in this place, where he finds comfort from knowing she is near.
He will wait, until he catches a fleeting glimpse of her face.
He will wait, to see her golden hair catch the breeze.
He will wait, for her infectious smile to warm his heart.
He will wait, for another chance, to tell her
how much he loves her.
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