Title Request #11

In the bitter cold, nights
are clear and still,
frozen between what was
the day and yet another.
Train whistles. Someone
is on the move, and it
isn't you, except for
the cold shaking deep
in your chest, echoing
the train's rumble over
tracks, your body carrying
a cargo too heavy
for blackland soil to bear,
too light for you to give
it up, a bitter stillness
falling as the train
moves on, as you won't.