Bus Stop Ghost

The rain-streaked glass, a dirty canvas,

holds more than just the streetlight's blur.

My face, a smear within the wet,

not quite my own, not quite a stranger.

A tired jaw, a hollow where

my eye should meet itself,

but finds the tail light of a bus

that left five minutes past.

The grime makes shadows deeper,

draws lines I haven't earned yet,

or perhaps, I have.

A city's ghost, caught in the pane,

wearing my coat, my weary skin,

waiting for something that won't come.

It watches me watch it.

No warmth.