Terminal Number

I could feel the life within me,

The marrow in bones and the flush of my skin,

I swell in my head and chest with pride,

Enough that it might keep me afloat,

Be it that is, when winter settles,

If the rock is slick and the ice might be thin,

Then I will pocket my joy inside,

And pocket out cash for tickets,

I always catch the tattered bus,

While groaning brakes and flashing lights halt,

Mingling figures usher in by each hand,

In mine to carry me to terminal three,

I sit closer toward the front end,

The seats are relieved with a little less fault,

The last I remember this bus ran,

Would be the last time I enjoy it,

When I let my eyes hover a bit,

Across from the masks and passable figurines,

I could describe my inner, sudden view,

Before I could have known her,

She was memorable at first,

A distinct posture and steady eyes that gleam,

Colors tearing from the murky few,

Was enough of her that I could see,

A swing of minutes spanned the days,

When every step on she seemed to remain there,

It was a month since the ice melted away,

And have I yet to walk this Spring?

The one morning came to me then,

We seated closely and yet apart as a quiet pair,

It was time I had something to say,

On our way toward terminal three,

I said hello, replied by pause,

I gave her a name by which she would grin,

I asked about her well being,

And how life treated her being

So calm and at ease,

Captivating with ease,

Say she is stunning I dare,

And wonder if she cared,

Reflect words in glass,

Perhaps time will pass,

A woman this purely,

I would praise so surely,

This I had known,

Realized on my own,

This courage could be,

Were it not what I see,

My lips had not moved to utter,

I stopped at my name, the rest were blocked,

Some words exchanged over the week,

Mattered to me and my heart,

I could not say the same for her,

On those days that I felt weight over thoughts,

My hopes had waned to bleak

As cold discernment tore them away,

I would, finally, stand from there,

And stop off the roundabout circles I endured,

For once I felt the need to be carried,

Maybe on the way back from work,

It would be some time for me,

Another month while some doubts still assure,

Avoiding terminals as I worried,

Should we see each other someday.

The winter symptoms came back,

And I only learned how dreadful the ice truly was,

When tragedy came from a terminal stop,

How a young woman lost her sight,

Spilling names and sorrow last night,

So few people could care over a midnight buzz,

Most might forget about this shock,

But could always remember her face,

I would start taking the bus again,

The familiar pitch came rolling on by the station,

Having myself and my eyes averted,

From where a lost soul had seated,

She was clutched to her cane,

And of any life in her eyes, had now been vacant,

The words I had for her diverted,

Broken condolences had been erased,

How long had I waited to leave?

How much longer of being trapped and watching,

Was worth suffering across from her?

Acting as if I remember,

Being there for me,

As if supporting me,

To pretend how much to love,

When better off to shove off

Our innate kindness,

Forgetting to find this

A trivial game of heart,

When at first we thought,

Our time should be spent,

Having cared for really when

A body stretching patience,

Becomes the dying patient,

For a while there I simply sat,

Comforting to my torments and to my delusions,

Catering in by the clear distress,

Of her warped and pained form,

Time seemed to matter little,

And barely moved us within this confined confusion,

As we fell moreover in with the rest,

And I was all on my own,

The opaque of the sorrow grew,

Saw a little less of my destination on every ride,

Making me gasp out in sudden pain,

When suddenly, came relief,

I turned to notice the strangers,

Setting foot into our stillness as if were light,

How their grim show lifted the rain,

When they had all left for home,

She and I were all that remain,

But I lifted eyes over into what she could not,

Where all along, there was something,

Where it all had meaning again,

The pitching movement slowed,

I no longer felt a pulse, a lingering thought,

There would be no walk this Spring,

And then I truly began to wonder,

Finally, I took the next stop,

Off along a braided path of lush trees, I took,

And the breath of morning, I know,

Was the life I felt within me,

Behind was left with a feeling,

Away from my eyes, the pair that never looked,

The tattered bus had somewhere to go,

To the next stop, a terminal number.