Sniffing for blood;  

Wandering into empty spaces,

Wondering what happens to beautiful people when

They fall asleep at bus stops with their belongings

Swallowed by the only coats they have, 

Resting their heads on disparate plastic bags

Bodies emaciated, heads rolling, 

Filled with lead and transience—

If not rotting in bus stops for months,

Disappearing forever

But there was not much I could discern in the dead of winter,

Save the reverberated voice from the monitor calling for our departure

Watching the fatigued figures reconcile with their ephemera, sighing

And boarding the rusting bus,

The clangor of bones in its trunk

Tided with an emptiness so pervasive it slowed the senses

Resting our weary heads on cold windows, 

Sunken into discomfiting seats—

Of course— it’s a memory now, reflected upon in the depths of my solitude

A one-way ride to

Snow and stardust dissipating into the void

Being reduced to nothingness.