Shayan Afzal

After the last train leaves,
the platform keeps its breath,
holding the shape of departures
in benches silvered by moonlight.

A paper cup rolls slowly,
practicing its small freedom.
Beyond the tracks, apartments glow
like constellations brought near.

I think of all the goodbyes
that never knew they were final,
all the hands that loosened
one ordinary evening.

Then, from somewhere under the rails,
a low vibration gathers—
not return, not promise,
but the earth remembering motion.

I walk home beneath that sound,
carrying nothing I can name,
while dawn, still hours away,
opens one pale eye.