I saw her on
the train
this
morning.
Well, not “Her”,
but a
very good
facsimile of
“Her”.
This copy of
“Her” had
some mileage
and
she wore it
on her face,
but it was
pretty darn
close to my
lost “Her”.
I hate that.
It gets the
mind
whirring and
humming.
Gears and
motors that had shut
down, start
sputtering to life.
Sputtering out
wild
‘What if’s?’
and ‘I Wonders’,
and all
sorts of dreaded
scenario
based fictionalizations
about what
life might have been.
These wicked
visions don’t do
anyone any
good. They’re steeped
in wistfulness,
accusations, mourning and
linger for
too long, cluttering up
the present.
This
facsimile, this doppelganger,
is someone
else’s “Her”. Someone
took the time
to love her, marry her
and build a
life with her all so she
could wind
up on my train, to spite
my memory.
I caught
myself thinking that I
hoped my “Her”
would do better
than this shady,
worn out copy.
Then I
thought I was writing about
the stuff
that happens on the trains
too much.
Then I went
to work. Then my life
went on
because it had no choice
and
wallowing in the memories of
a train lady
doppelganger was dumb.
It wasn’t “Her”
anyway.
So why carry
on like a widower
constantly eulogizing
the loss
of a
relationship.
There’s so
many better things to
see on the
train.
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