Rahil Najafabadi’s “After Midnight”

When the hours stretch after midnight, I look after myself.

Once I am there near the pond–––
The air disappears
When I draft a songbird’s hum
On the wing of guilt.

I sober up and see a couple drunk men and women.
Some out of it, some already meshed into the black of the night.
I feel the man beside me and his feverish sleeve.
The scent of sweat is only tolerable when it belongs to the one you love.
But the one you love won’t be here, or there, in a bad, bad car
On the train,
In Manhattan,
After midnight.

I will always love you.
I won’t always let you know.

Always.
Always.
Always.

Always, always, always.

A familiar pain of thinking the right things,
but saying the wrong words in being crude:
I will define this moment–––

It is drafting a songbird’s hum on the cloud’s rise.
It is opening a letter knowing someone has died.
It is being and knowing that being itself,
is more significant than creating something new.

But I will never understand.
I will never understand.

Why does the air feel bitter now?

The afterhours hear me hum softly–––
It’s our familiar pain,
The sky is watching:
I see my stop, but I know,
I won’t get off the train.