The Golden Hour Between Trains

I used to think the city was only made of concrete and noise.
Then you told me about this spot—where a single sliver of light breaks through the belly of the overpass exactly at 4:12 PM.

Today, I came alone. The train rumbles above me, shaking my bones with its heavy rhythm, but beneath it all is a silence that feels like prayer.
I close my eyes and let the sun touch my skin. It smells of dust and old iron, yet somehow tastes like home.

You are not here, but I can still feel your hand on the small of my back from last Tuesday—the way you whispered 'just breathe' into my hair while we watched a stranger feed pigeons.
My sweater is soft against me, and my skirt flows like dark water around my ankles.

I am waiting for nothing in particular, yet I feel as though everything has already arrived.

Editor: Pure Linen