If we were all as romantic as we'd like to be,
we could meet our future spouses here.
Instead,
we wait.

We are a moving room full of
strangers
an in-transit nation consisting of
empty spaces.

We are all reading the paper in our own way
Our minds are somewhere else but here on these
plastic, carpeted seats

Lately, my heart hurts.
My bones are anxious.
I just want to run,
I possess all of the energy of the sun, and yet,
I sleep.

My soul searches for something more than this empty space,
than this
bus full of strangers too afraid to introduce themselves.
This is monotony.
The hollowness of it eats at my thoughts like maggots at a corpse.

Soon there will be nothing left

Was there anything to begin with?