It's 4:12p.m, Tuesday-afternoon
The bus hums beneath me like it knows more then I do;
I'm not sure where I'm going- will I do know- I mean, but also not really.
Google map knows. I suppose…
Outside, the tree blur into brushstrokes..just like my thoughts.
My head leans on the glass,
(It's cold but not unkind.)
Like someone placing a hand on your shoulder
Just to say, you're still here, safe in my place.
People around my are talking, sleeping, scrolling- but I'm just watching the way light folds into the floor.
How everything keeps moving,
'Tho, when I feel stuck'.
There's a boy two seat ahead,
with his headphones on and a notebook open….
He's not writing,
Just holding the pen like it's a memory- he's too afraid to lose.
I guess, I get that!
Sometimes, I think I feel too much.
Other times, I feel like a blank page
in a book that's already halfway written.
It's …not sadness, not exactly
It's like being underwater -but breathing just fine.
Or laughing while your chest ache,
Or knowing you're loved - but still wondering why you feel alone on random 'Tuesday afternoons'-at 4:12p.m …
And still,
there's this quite beauty in it all—
the way the world passes by
and I get to seat Here,
not needing to be anywhere else except this seat
with this version of me,
who doesn't have it all figured out
- but is trying ... right?
I don't know what that feeling is..
that lives just behind my ribs,
Soft yet hard , slow yet ....fast- faster then anything I could ever imagine to be .
-but maybe that's enough
to name it here. / right?