I watched your suicide
from the opposite side of the tracks,
that perfectly choreographed plunge
just as the train came round the bend,
like your entire life had been compressed
into this one single moment, this one flicker
snuffed out by the night. I watched
as the passersby groaned quietly
and shuffled onwards, lighting cigarettes
and fumbling to clasp hands, inhaling deeply
the roasting stench from the bottom
of the tunnel, rising slowly like feathers
in the midtown fog. I waited
to see if anyone would stay
and take the whole scene in,
and when I noticed one man, standing
with both hands in his trench coat
on the far side of the vaulted labyrinth,
I quickly darted away towards the surface,
hoping that his labored breaths
mixed with the nearly transparent
plumes of smoke, rising
from the depths of the tracks
like a song played for no one to hear.
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