Faded Velvet

A ticket stub,

crumpled in the pocket.

Afternoon.

The bus smelled of old exhaust

and damp upholstery.

I didn't get off

at my stop.

Just watched the buildings blur,

the faces turn away.

A pause.

The worn velvet seat

cool beneath my hand.

A quiet theft

from the day's loud rush.

This hour,

unaccounted for.