Tickets of Dawn

On the rail that measures no hours passes the season’s train,
windows where it submerges summers and brines, a metallic sigh,
leaving farewell tickets falling like little moons.
Each page smells of bark, salt, and jasmine bloom,
holding a canceled phrase, a number that won’t return,
slipping into the hands of sleepers standing tall.
The dawn platform gathers these papyri and counts them with closed sight,
learning their weight light as the first day, heavy as goodbye night,
then letting them drift on the wind for someone to read like a map.
When the train fades away, only the chime of memory stays,
a ticket folded deep in the pocket, the edge of farewell upon the skin,
and the morning starts selling new seats for departure again.