Prison Bus

A smile and a volley of heartbeats. A faded memory folded and kept in a breast pocket. A rattling bus weaving through debris littering a long abandoned road. The grass on the side of the road is tall, wild; anything could lurk there. Anything but you. 

The bus seat is sticky beneath my fingertips, gluing itself to my my t-shirt. I would have followed you across the universe on my knees if your smile had ever meant anything. Instead I took a sparsely packed bag and took the first bus out of town; this bus, where you could get venereal diseases off the seats, and lose everything you have to the guy with a battered cap pulled low over his eyes. And all I have to give are the bruises on my knees that refuse to scrub off and a faded memory that I refuse to show anyone. Because it's the only real thing left. In the light of day, folded out to be seen by everyone, it would be nothing more than another dream of a lost lifetime.