The Conversation

I saw myself just the other day,
Reflected in the tiles of a subway station of my youth,
And I was smiling because I`d thought of what I would say,
And how I would talk, and where we would go to steal a moment for a kiss.

And as my rowdy lock fell to one side,
Covering one eye and calculated to hide,
What I deemed to be my least attractive features,
But still accentuate my smile,
It cast a pan-like silhouette in the muted station tile,

But that was long before I understood what could go amiss.

And then the light shifted in the station,
And I was gone,
And I was sorry we had not had words, a conversation,
About the stuff that would go on,
Because I know I would have listened

REFLECTION

I wrote this poem several years ago on a train that had just pulled into Summerhill subway station in Toronto, not far from where I grew up. Something about the way the light hit the wall, or maybe just the way I was sitting in that moment, transported me back to a very specific memory.

I was fifteen. I had dressed up to meet a girl—my first love—and I was standing on that platform, filled with the kind of anticipation you only feel before the very first time you hand your heart to someone. I remember feeling handsome, confident and awkward at the same time, trying to tilt my hair just right to hide my ears which I always thought stuck out, and highlight other features instead. That kind of self-awareness feels innocent now.

But what hit me hardest, sitting on that train years later, wasn’t the memory of the moment – it was the realization of everything that came after it. The joy, yes, but also the mistakes. Some of them avoidable, some of them self-inflicted, and some, if I’m honest, that I still carry.

I’ve been shaped by love and ambition, but also by pride, distraction, and periods of overindulgence that pulled me away from my own center. I dulled things that should’ve been felt clearly. I muted instincts that could have guided me better.

What I saw in that subway tile reflection wasn’t fueled by just nostalgia. It was wrought of grief for my younger self, and a quiet wish that I could sit him down and say: This is what’s coming. Listen closely. You’ll need to be wide awake for it.

Join the Conversation

What would you say to your younger self if you had the chance?
Feel free to share your own moment, reflection, or poem in the comments