Euston to Finchley Road

They said you jumped, but not like that:
they made it so much more anonymous.
It hit you once, then rumbled to a halt
and hopefully you’re quiet now.

As I listened to the rumble under the quietness,
five times it hit me: everything is meant to be.
Five times amongst friends, I felt the stillness talk,
warmth welling up, exploding on my face.

I’ll never know you now, but know the place,
the platform edge, and will not join you yet.

I sat and was silent last night at Friends House, in Euston Road. Really still. One of us spoke, mentioning the rumble of the trains and saying that in her stillness the trains didn't matter. I agreed silently.

A little while later, and then time and time again, I was hit by a deep, wide euphoria, a firm sense that everything was for the best. It was meaningful only to me, so I kept it to myself. But I smiled: oh, how I smiled.

When we'd finished and shaken hands, we introduced ourselves. I hesitated, grimacing. I was en bloke and now don't like using my bloke name in such places of utter honesty. So my friend named me. "Come on Sarah," she said. And I named myself and of course it was all alright.

When I reached Baker Street, on the way home, I heard that there had been a 'person under a train' at Finchley Road. A suicide I assume. This is the same line that rumbles under Euston Road.

A macabre connection.