Notes on a bus

I cried, and cried really – fitfully,

Frightened of the night to come

And days to follow.

I cared not for friends

And how they would comfort me,

For I had thrown away a love.

A life once mapped in notion

Now lost to fantasy

To regret

To the shadows of another being

For he and I no longer identified

For good or bad, he was a different man

And so it was my soul

That bled asunder

Wrent by my own wretched hands

My tongue in fact

My thoughts –

My future for a cigarette.

Could it really have been that banal?

A voice, in answer, on a phone some weeks later blamed me anyway.

Notes on a bus going somewhere… again