Passengers shifting like old bruises

The overhead light flickers,

caught in its own tired hum.

A man shouts — words sharp,

a shot fired through stale recycled air.

Seats groan beneath restless bodies,

chipped blue paint flakes like cold skin.

We move slow, a slow burn,

every eye avoids the cracks,

where anger folds into the rattling.

Outside, the street blurs,

as if the city itself is trying to forget

how close it all feels to breaking.