not quite alone justwrite

Get anywhere except the front of the bus because the road thinks too smoothly there, more waterfall than asphalt, expecting steam to rise from the bottoms of your feet but sinking instead so you think you're drowning until you realize your knees are dry and you'd be breathing if you wanted to be, you'd be breath like fog on a January day, warm and wet and feeling too light to find the ground and too heavy to find yourself, pretending that all things with strings are kites so you can fly above the highway with your shoes on tight enough on a windy day, your fingers catching on the edges of rooftops and catching sunlight as if you could, as if everything you see is real and you can tear off shadows, fold them into cranes or just in half so they'll fit in your pocket, and you're not surprised when it's empty later, at least not as surprised you were the first time you had your palm read and learned that everything would turn out well, full of laugh lines and songs on acoustic guitars with words that aren't for strangers. You kept asking more and yet more empty faces until you found the bad news, etched it into your skin so deep it's permanent unless you learn to see through yourself, but even then the rain catches in the crevices and reflects the words in sunlight or moonlight or lamplight, so you turn to mist and pretend you're not searching for the ground, for yourself, for how long it takes to find the front of the bus and get anywhere.