I think a green ticket is only a keepsake. Then I meet unrequited love again at the delayed train to Prague.

I find you waiting inside the delayed train to Prague, exactly where memory puts you.

I feel rain cooling the window as you turn toward me.

I touch a green ticket after your fingers leave it.

I hear my own pulse insist that I need my love returned.

I step closer when your ticket ends in a country I cannot follow.

I ask whether you expected to see me tonight.

I feel your breath change beside the last carriage.

I feel the old shape of your hand around my cold fingers.

I learn again that touch can outlive permission.

I ask for the truth of unrequited love without decoration.

I recognize the careful voice you use before hurting me.

I move a green ticket between our hands like a boundary.

I hear every reason and search for one choice.

I realize that you love the way I love you, not me.

I let the truth land without bargaining.

I carry a green ticket toward the last carriage without looking back.

I feel your hand close gently around my sleeve.

I turn close enough to feel your breath.

I watch you choose whether to close the remaining distance.

I reach for you inside the delayed train to Prague, but you love the way I love you, not me.