No one arrives with thoughts of being lone, They come by chance, as strangers often do. A moment shared, yet neither one had known That fleeting ties could feel so deep, so true.
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But when they go, it feels they linger still, As if they wait in silence, far away. We name it solitude, yet miss the thrill— Not knowing it was never meant to stay.
Alone we were before that meeting came, Alone we stood once they had walked away. Yet somehow, touched, we never stayed the same, Though fate had only lent a brief delay.
So call it not the wound of love or pain— But just the echo of a passing train.
