I just woke up and—
It’s cold, and I’m tired.
Standing at the bus stop with my neighbors,
my bag heavier than my body,
my head heavier than my bag.
The textbook in my hand lists my exams,
Kingdoms I can’t classify and processes I can’t explain.
The bus driver lives around the corner.
We hear his engine start,
the grumble of morning.
He pulls out,
backs up,
and rolls toward us.
We climb in.
Seats creak.
Heat hums, just barely.
I open the book,
but the letters won’t stay still.
I glance up—
and the sky hits me.
Pastel.
Not pink, not purple—something between.
And it’s almost as if you can smell it—
it smells like—
Like something good.
Not candy.
Not flowers.
Like air after rain, but sweeter—
cleaner.
The sky just exhaled
and the world paused
to breathe it in.
I stare.
Busmates probably think I’m twelve,
staring out the window like I’ve never seen clouds.
But that sky—
It knocks the tired out of my bones.
Cuts through the fog in my chest.
Wipes out the weight of what-ifs and what-nows.
It feels holy, almost.
Not church holy,
but the kind that sneaks up on you
when you don’t believe in much.
I keep looking,
like maybe if I stare long enough,
I’ll stay awake.
And for a moment,
I don’t care about the test,
or the clock,
or the day.
For a moment,
I believe that something out there
is still worth watching.
And then the envious eye of the sun comes and kills it
can’t stand not being the center of attention.