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she stood by the bus stop, same time, same day. same bus, same route. the grey streets with the smoke that glided between the emptiness. the deteriorated exteriors of shops, damaged and wrecked signs. the multiple overdue shreds of concert posters on the window screens, with a large red banner with CLOSED written in black.
you could occasionally hear the distant voices of the cars and screeches of the rusting bicycles of the paperboy. but more of the hustling of newspapers.
but she stood there, in her tranquil place; her own world. that was beyond her earphones and in her mind. what could have caught her in such beauty and desire of black lines, and the way she softly pinched the paper to move forward. the things she did was in such delicacy.
her pulled back coiled hairs behind her ear, gently slicked down. the wind embraced her neck which made her fondle with her bleached-out grey utility jacket, smuggling it inside her fleece.
the weather was grey and it resembled her clothes, almost black jeans, with her worn-out laced boots. she'd probably had that for quite a while now.
what was admired was her blood-stained lips, keen just like her fingers pinched at the papers.
"he took the spark we had and burnt my art." she murmurs the lyrics to a song, rhyming along with the music flowing in her head.
her eyes fluttered away from the pages as the engine of the bus was coughing. she took two paces forward to reach the curb and outstretched her arm.
she placed her book in her sling bag, in exchange for her purse, she stepped in, looking out for a seat. as the doors closed, the gas exhaled as the bus carried on, away soon out of sight.
