the girl who always sat
in the back of the bus
was troubled.
i saw her everyday at
6:41 am.
when she'd come,
it didn't look like she had much but
I would see her with a
different style every time.
She'd walk over to the stop
holding something in
her jean jacket pocket.
she'd switch it around all
four pockets of her jacket.
She'd look around for a little while
check the time here and there.
She would ask the operator for a ride
every day.
i looked at her at times,
not in a bad way
which i guess made her uncomfortable
and i know this because
I'd see her write in her book a lot.
Forehead creased.
wild woman hair covering
her heart shaped face.
Leg up on the seat in front of her
trying to get a good angle
of her book.
Pen scribbling sentences that
didn't even look like it had
spaces.
i wanted to talk to her.
At least say hi
but i couldn't..
today the
troubled girl
held the item in her pocket
for a little while, then when i turned back
at her,
she had different creases on her face.
her gracious face
yet her mind was entangled by the *******
of her troubles.
She looked around the bus,
out of place,
as if she'd
lost something
not lost something
but
needed someone
needed someone's shoulder
to tear up on.
In fact,
she looked as if she lost the shoulder she used to cry on..
i really hope not.
i wanted to walk over.
But the muscles in my legs stopped working
my arms stopped working.
I looked away instead.
and she saw this
When i glanced to the
back once more,
she was gone.
Both of our hearts
stopped
working.