The train whistle in the distance is my word for loneliness, a whisper in the wilderness, a ghost that never rests. But here I am, in this bed alone, so who am I to judge? As if I could ever sound that sad. As if I could articulate that much. On the good days I remember the velocity of her smile. That's something of a disadvantage, this deep in denial. I pull back on the emotional brakes, but I'm broken-down and broke. I'm not so lonesome I could cry, but I suppose that I can hope. And the train phantoms itself away. Easier on the ears than on the eyes the ghost of Hank Williams has never sounded so alone as the train does tonight. I couldn't have loved you any harder than I pretended, I'd be lying if I said I did. Subtract the "could've been" from all the "what was there"... you cans see the deficit. Take away the train-whistles, the night is forsaken grace. For all the memories I have of you, I can't picture your face. And the ghost train is a constant, and the engine calls the tune. Hank Williams knows this better than we do. The last train-whistle slips off my ear, and catches in my throat. The ghosts of locomotion leave me sliding on that last note. I'm not so lonely I could cry, but for that, there's always hope.
April 30, 2016
Hank Williams & the Ghost Train – Ryk McIntyre