Eighth Grade Bus

A song played,

just a flicker from a car radio,

and suddenly, I was back on the bus,

the green vinyl seats hot in summer,

window grimy, the air thick with sweat

and cheap perfume.

And you. Slouching there,

your hair too long, your shoulders hunched

like you were trying to fold yourself smaller.

I said it, didn't I? Some sharp little thing

about your worn-out sneakers, or the way

you always read a book

when everyone else was loud.

Your head didn't even lift.

Just that little flinch in your neck,

then back to the page. And I,

I watched your shadow on the glass

as the bus pulled away, leaving

me there, still holding the words,

sharp and ugly.

Still here.