“imprint” and photography by: Erickson
Lips crisp to a close.
The hum of the bus – clunk, clunk – forms a ritual.
Moving is slow, deliberate,
In dark-blue air.
Bodies are within reach –
White fingerprints on chrome-plated steel meet me.
Yet distance,
Almost homesickness,
Is enemy.
The ember glow – dim and forgotten,
Reaches from the rear passenger cabin.
We stand, among others absorbed in screens,
Like Christmas lights sprinkled through the city.
The vehicle throws us-
A stumble, a save-
When we look each other’s way…and laugh.
A warmth in the chest allows a full breath.
Healing, in a foreign country.
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