bus ride

rainy window.jpeg

raindrops tremble like a shoal of fish,
clinging to the cold glass of the window.
the black arm of the wiper
sweeps the unlucky few
to drip down into the smoky grate.
it plays a rhythm against the glass,
squeaking and shuddering
like a factory.
it is dark outside.
it gets dark early now, as the coldness
creeps in.
tall trees batter my window
with their thick, violent branches
as we trundle past,
our gaudy blue and yellow interior
offensive to the rich green
of the woods.
get out of here, the trees shout.
leave us in peace,
we do not want you.
muddy footprints have splattered the floor,
marks left by earlier passengers.
retreating into artificial warmth
for a little respite
against the frozen air,
they are spluttered out again
just as their fingers and toes
begin to thaw.
nobody notices me.
i have sat for hours now, in this spot.
my legs ache, but i have little strength
to move them
and get comfortable.
the bus jerks to a halt at a red light,
spilling its crimson colour into
the watery bodies of the raindrops.
the engine chugs, grating painfully
across my head,
but still i am not moved.
there comes a hiss as the doors open,
and i hear the stomp of heavy boots
climbing aboard.
are they blue boots?
i steal a glance.
blue boots.
i can feel the vomit rising in my throat,
the nausea spreading through
my head,
pulsing at my temples.
but the boots move away,
unphased and untempted by
my presence.
it’s not him.
still, it is not him and my empty heart
cries to be swept away
like the raindrops
and hidden
from view.

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