1am. Morning comes too soon. Silence seeps through the door from nearby abandoned homes. No stir of life. An unheralded rapture. War of thoughts. Reflections of failures. Insects press upon the window a thick blanket of sounds, a dense racket pierced only by the distant wail from trains. I remember now the sound of my name: cold and clean and too formal on your tongue. Maybe your way of hiding ‘I love you’s.’ I swallow another dream pill and maybe there where the ghost trains go, and to where the disappeared, a promised land once glimpsed in the glow of your smile, where now consumed all beautiful things once gleaned…maybe there this is true. I await my turn at the table of feasts.