remember
to look out the window
not at your reflection or the neon pulsating signs
but at the blur learning how to let go

take your medication
even on days     you feel brave
sleep when the carriage dims
even if your heart     resists rest

discard what no longer fits
the old leather jacket that smells like old rooms
receipts     expired names
the habit of waiting for permission

remember your mother’s voice
pack the scent of home     carefully
soap from the old cupboard
sun caught in    cotton
the faint trace of cardamom   clinging to mornings

keep your phone charged
but do not answer everything
some silences are instructions

when the city thins
into poles     fields     unnamed stops
place your palm on the glass
feel how motion rewrites the self

you will pass brilliance
cities flashing their   confidence
fields  pretending   to be endless
do not confuse either
for permanence

you will change slowly   without noticing
like language when it leaves the mouth

as the train leaves
you will first feel lighter
then unbearably   hollow

i hope you understand
there will be no  gentle return
no accidental crawl back into this life

there is no platform
where i will be standing later
no familiar turn    to bring you back

only movement
and the soft violence of forward
and a place
that will stop remembering you
before you are ready