Reality Rides

Crammed in a bumpy bus-seat,

Lulled by abrupt breaks and over-takes,

I hide my face,

In the crook of his neck;

I close my eyes, fighting,

To hold on, to every sense he is,

Fighting away, the teenage heads, drowned in tubs of hair gel,

The stale breaths of drunkards, cursing to themselves,

And piles of everyday waste, blowing in through the shutters;

 

I entangle my fingers,

Tightly around his,

Trying to feel his life beating through the skin,

Against the loud 6/8 tracks playing on the radio,

The crass, screechy conducting of the conductor,

And the relentless political breakdown from the gentlemen behind us;

 

I nuzzle under his chin,

Thinking how pointless this journey is,

For, I am home,

In the crook of his neck.

 

I breathe in every moment, with great care,

Praying for a prolonged ride,

Before he squeezes my hand to let me know,

It’s time to say goodbye,

And I open my eyes,

Braving my heart to let in,

The world I had blocked out.

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