To the sleeping boy on the train

You seemed so peaceful. Collapsed over your abdomen, caved from the pressure of another day. Relaxed finally. Your forest green sleeves are pushed up to reveal your forearms, the left one curled in your lap included a brightly colored tattoo of a woman. While your eyes were closed, she watched over you, keeping track of the other passengers who stood too close to your sleeping form. You didn't wake when commuters crowded your space. You didn't wake when the train attendant tried to shake you to consciousness. You probably didn't hear her over the din of your headphones or the rattle of the train. She rattled your shoulders, attempted to uncurl your fingers wrapped around your backpack. You were so drowned in sleep that she couldn't bring you back to the surface. She turned to me, checked my ticket, and returned to your side. She called to you across the void, rattled your shoulders again as your eyelids fluttered to the present. Your dug your torn wallet out of your pocket, found the needed ticket stub, and checked your watch. Long past time to get off this train. You blinked hard and waited for the next stop, only to wait and retrace your sleeping steps on the other side of the platform.