Bus Station

Katrina Kaye

A little after ten thirty,
we sit at the bus station.

My leg thrown over yours,
head rests on shoulder,
your arm around me,
absently caressing my shoulder
as though a lifelong habit.

The ice of your eyes bites my lower lip as
you tell me where the wild things are
in a cadence so calm it stirs my soul.
I tire of hiding my insides
from my out.

I crawl inside you then,
build a home from the bones of your rib cage,
a bed out of cartilage that marked sternum,
pillow from soft tissue between vertebrae,
I fall asleep against the rhythm of your heart.

I leave a piece of myself there.

A little before eleven you collect yourself
and join the crowd surrounding the departing door.

Without a second thought
I give you my last cigarette,
a kiss for the road,
and a handful carefully chosen words.
A shared serene convergence
before the road drags you away.


“Bus Station” is previously published in The Fall of a Sparrow (2014) by Swimming with Elephants Publications, Down in the Dirt January 2012, and After the Apocalypse 2013 Literary Datebook.

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