I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
Too caught up in the music, the melody, the melodrama of miscommunication.
I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
Too busy staring off into another lovers eyes, starting to believe the lies of my brain overriding my heart.
I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
It’s the same stop I always make after a long trip. Weary. Unwilling to submit to the idea that this station will always be vacant when I stop by.
I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
I hope I didn’t confuse a connection with a destination. A transfer with a terminal feeling of elation.
I hope I wasn’t dickmatized with a nice body and no aspirations.
A fuck buddy with no future.
A past figure with a foundation of forever.
I hope this journey brings me back to my stop.
Hopefully this is the long road. Less traveled. Of lessons learned lamenting through looking glass at concrete moments etched over in linoleum.
I feel like I’ve missed my stop.
They all look like. Tell me the same things. You were the last one that felt like home.
I want to be home. Not riding this bus of busy ideas, bustling bodies, and bawdy banter.
No matter how much I travel. I’ll always come back to…my stop.
