the night bus.

so when i leave my bike at home it takes hours to get back, striding shivering together down long quiet streets, half-paved, and covered in traffic cones. waiting for buses while drunk boys ask for help in german, in english, in that twinkling eyes sort of way that says a whole lot and a whole little all at once. everything's interchangeable, and maybe that's best after all.

(i can't hear the ringing through the music, the ringing in my ears or the ringing on my phone; the music so loud it batters our eardrums and the confetti explodes from yr back and they all strike a pose so we all cheer and laugh and jump into frenzied joyful dances.)

something about riding home past these ferris wheels every day, one two three or is it only two? something about searching desperately for glances just so i can ignore them. i wake up at night startled, singing aloud, fingers digging deep. i wake up in the morning with turquoise patches on my elbows, with smudged ink on the insides of my thighs.

last night we went past the limits of our broken phrases; we ate cold vague delicacies from dirty plates, with squiggly forks, while canadians played reptitive droning songs in the basement below and dogs trotted around bored and happy and the nets hanging from the ceiling could've pulled me in for good, so inviting. maybe that was her, maybe not.

(but saying hello is the hardest part of all.)