About the times I've rode the bus.
Those quiet rides in the evening,
a subtle form to heal the cuts
from the days I saw you leaving.
Leaving in your blue car past the street,
not once you looked from your rearview mirror
at the face that once made you feel complete.
You draw further, I wish we were nearer.
Nearer to what we once had.
A fantasy, a perfect delusion.
The bus leaves me down the road, sad.
Thirty minutes on foot, thinking if everything was an ilusion.
A fallacy, the thought of being yours.
As I walk underneath the baking sun,
making sure my mind is on the course,
voices in my head say you had to run.
Run from the safety of your sterring wheel,
knowing I needed you here.
Do you sleep well at night, knowing my heart you peel?
Or does a turbulance occurs? Perhaps fear?
Fear of knowing you've lost a good friend.
Someone who has to take out spare change
and make meets end,
knowing he had once a rider, who now feels strange.
