mayawrites

The last stop is a place

Where taxes are low

Morale is high

And if you’re lucky

The stops on your way there

Are nothing compared

To the last stop.

Every death is plague

A cough is as contagious

As the death of a heart

For the death of a heart

Kills another

The death of their lungs

The death of their skin

The death of their blood

Does not hurt

Like the death

Of a heart.

Like a suitcase packed

About to explode

Lovers hesitate

The suitcase is full

Packed

Overflowing

So full it hurts

With lipsticks and clothes and purses and regrets

and pretty necklaces with flowers on top

and equally fine promises wrapped in plastic

and the suitcase

is ready

to be shipped

to somewhere new

but the lover holds the zip

until he soon lets it go

willingly

and his heart is lighter

more space to breathe

and the carry on’s continue the legacy

the disarray of items left on the floor

melting over the suffocated bag

until it tips over

but the lover

who let go

is no longer scared or agonised

by the pain of hers

but by the abscense of hers

and he fails,

and books his own ticket,

the railway,

to the last stop.

Books his own cab

Carries his own bags

Finds the station

Enters the door

And waits

And waits

And waits

until everyone is boarded

until everyone is checked off

and then

the train sets off

and arrives

to the last stop.