The bus creaked and a dim light bent

The bus creaked and a dim light bent

across crumpled words I could not forget.

Edges soft as whispered regrets,

paper worn from anxious holding.

Lines drifted off like loose skin,

breaking between breaths and stops.

This story’s end was someone else’s sigh,

a space where I slipped and lost track.

Fingers curled to catch the falling sense,

but the page folded back on itself,

and left me staring at a silence

too wide for a final line.