no control in nostalgia

wrote this poem the other day while riding the bus home from seeing a friend. im trying to write more regularly since im in poetry class again.

i stare at the three seats

at the back of the bus.

i pretend that, if i squint, i

will still see us there.

heads on shoulders, a steady hum instead

of conversation.

we are going home. we are going

out. we are home.

my fingers itch for contact,

a concept of a graze.

the bus halts, lurches, dwindles,

three to two to one.

i am going home. i am going away.

im not home.