I have always known the difference
of a seat by the bus window.
Where the thin sheet of glass
and the rush of travel
were the only things separating me from reality –
of farmers tending to their land,
living on their own as I am,
the blue canvas of sky
painted with tall green peaks,
sunlight between trees
through holes poked by fairies,
the cold air against my face
like those dark, stormy nights
of warm blankets and coffee,
poetry and raindrop lullabies;
the songs of loss and heartbreak
reenacted by the subtle tears of drizzle
and of the mist
obscuring the reflection like a vague memory.
The fast-paced life of anonymity
barely leaves time to meet
a striking stranger.
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