it's 8:07am,
I'm going back home.
the bus's almost empty, and
I can almost hear the echoes
of la Reél on my earphone,
I can almost hear my heart
break and my thoughts pace.
how long until I get to rest?
it's 8:10am,
I'm going back home.
the bus's almost at my stop, and
my hands smell of expensive,
shitty cigarettes and my lips taste
of stranger lips and watermelon
and oversaid promises.
how long until I get to be free?
it's 8:14am,
I'm going back home.
I got out of the bus, and the sun hits
my chest with longing and yearning
and my eyes burn and blind and my
legs feel like breaking up from my
body and leaving me like you did.
how long until I can mourn you?
it's 8:19am,
I'm back home.
I close the gates with my hips, and my
bones shiver and resonate like old
thunders that refuse to accept the lack
of rain.
I open the doors with my forehead, and
my mind throbs and complains like old
memories that refuse to accept the time
has passed.
I lay on the bed, and my back aches and
burns like old wounds that refuse
to close.
how long until I'm back home?
