Stop (Bus)
by Ayn Frances dela Cruz
It always seems that way like the way you feel when you been left by the bus again, because you did not raise your head upon examining the brownness of your skirt, “fake woolen” he said, water splashing all around (The bus’s gravity is huge, you learned that in Physics, a class he could care less about). So your skirt is mud again, seems like it weaned in your skin like a natural habitat, so drained of water you could grow earth, when all you wanted was to feel the water on earth skin, wanted to feel people on earth lungs, wanted to be earth so you would not cry again, so you would be hard and packed and stepped on and you would not feel it, not like you do now. It was a madness made for birds (the bus), you think, you would not want to be there, anyway, even though he is there probably reading the 10th John Grisham edition (which you lent him). He once said that Physics is a distinct impossibility, that it is a byproduct of superstition, a science made by manic depressives who wished to control the world but look here, you wanted to shout, I am holding up the rain (your eyes were fountains), and my brown paper bag did not catch it, did not catch it all.