Fickle.

I dropped you at the dimly lighted bus stop beneath the lamplight
Dropped your hand from my hand, that is, not my heart.
You took a seat on that bright green bench….knees to your chest.
As if some sort of comfort could come to me from seeing you ageless.

Ageless, but older than you truly are in soul;
Your face looked just your age against your hard knees.
Resting your stubbly chin on your forearm….absolutely precious.
As if some sort of comfort would come to me seeing you careless.

Careless, like the wind cradling my crying face with it’s tiny hands.
Whispering that I can’t cry while you can still see my face.
But you won’t turn; I know you well enough for that….looking.
As if some sort of comfort will come in seeing the bus on the horizon.

Horizon betraying my eyes as I see that metal thief coming toward you.
Eager to pick you up and whisk you away from a meaningless whore.
Your eyes flicker like an adulterer to your manner of escape….flawed.
As if some sort of comfort will come from those boring into my skin.

Skin set on fire by rain, by a broken streetlamp the betrayed me.
Watching you press your hot cheek to a frozen window.
Hoping like hell you’ll cry, or at least let your lip falter….softly.
As if my heart will mend itself seeing some form of emotion from you.