Untraceable

On the bus this morning, I'm staring

out the window at nothing in particular—

the building across the street,

a fire escape, a billboard for something

I don't need—when a stranger asks

if I'm okay.

I'm not in distress. I'm just staring.

But apparently, staring like that

looks like a problem.

I try to answer. I open my mouth

to explain, and I realize I have no idea

what I've been thinking about.

No idea at all.

My reflection is layered over the city

passing behind it. Both of them

slightly out of focus. Both of them

moving in different directions.

The stranger is still waiting for an answer.

I tell them I'm fine. I'm thinking

about something. The lie is automatic.

The truth would take too long.

But the thing is—

what was I thinking about?

The building? The fire escape?

The feeling of the bus moving?

The way time is passing and I'm not

doing anything to stop it?

Or was I just thinking?

Just the act of it, the hum of the brain

trying to make sense of being alive,

which is another way of saying

no sense at all.

I turn back to the window.

My reflection is gone—the sun moved,

or the angle changed, or I moved,

and now there's just the city,

just the buildings and the fire escapes

and the billboards, just the world

doing what it does,

and me, unable to explain

what any of it means.

Unable to explain what I'm thinking

because I don't know. Because thinking

might just be the sound of being confused

in a language only you understand.