late night train melancholy | A Poem

Mission Hill melancholy

i turned around only

to see

the hill i fell in love with you on

how strange it was 

mission hill

after a night of celebration and wine

such a odd sense of deja vu walking

toward the T

a peculiar sense of somber and nostalgia

i wished to walk back up the hill

knock on that old house and

see you open the door

flaxen hair disheveled 

omelette cooking on the stove 

jacob collier in the air

i think i just passed

my own ghost

i hear her old joy

i’ve missed you

probably more than you've missed me

i hope you’ve missed me

now i ride the orange

back to oak grove 

boston is gelid, a wind tunnel

ear tips and finger tips

bitter with cold

the commons festive tree is bright

i hope you’re well

i miss you less

love, you know who

Concluding Thoughts

As I was doing some spring cleaning, I came across some old papers that contained a napkin with this poem scribbled on it. I wrote it back in December of last year after attending a friend's 25th birthday. It wasn't until I was leaving the party, and walking back to the nearest subway stop, that I realized I was in Mission Hill—an old haunt.

It’s strange how certain places can hold onto versions of us—how a street or a hill can feel almost archival, like it remembers more clearly than we do; an archive we can physically meander through and cross paths with who we used to be. This poem came out of that feeling—of retracing steps that no longer lead anywhere, of wanting to turn back even when you know you shouldn't, and know you won’t, but maybe ask "what if?".

This piece started with the center focus being on a lost connection, however, over the months and light tweaks, it's shifted into a versions that reflects on the 'selves' that linger in place-memories, with echoes of an old connection that acts as a lens rather than a subject. Because there’s a particular kind of melancholy tied to these places—to trains, to cities, to leaving one version of your life and arriving in another without much ceremony or realization.

"To write poetry worth any salt, one must be deeply disturbed—mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically." —Anonymous.

—Bair✍︎

Where epic fantasy meets philosophical ponderings of the self.

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