Sometimes I take the bus home; they run all night.
Whenever I hop on I feel like a part of something.
A temporary member of a secluded little society, the worn down driver greeting me wordlessly, my fellow passengers not; absorbed in their phones, books, blankly staring out the window, too tired to sleep.
There’s no talk, no verbal camaraderie, but we’re together nonetheless.
We roll quietly along the asphalt. Noises come when we shudder to a halt to collect silhouettes from the side of the road, to join us on our journey, always with one hand raised, assured of our aid.
So thus we spend our short time, together whilst alone, the blackness and silence of outside the glass squeezing our world in a little bit tighter.
When I finally step off into the cool night, into the yellow wash cast by the streetlights clouds of moths beat themselves to death on, I always feel a distinct sense of being totally alone.
The bus rumbles to life, my oasis of belonging fading into the night.
I feel nostalgia for the community that left me behind.