you ride the long bus into the twilight
watching strangers chew their solitary meals
their eyes fixed on the black glass
as if they will be staring into the void forever
and you think this is what it looks like
to have given up on being found
you pull over on a highway that goes nowhere
and sit beside the motionless weight left in the grass
you look closely at the stillness
at the chest that will not expand again
at the pocket still holding its ordinary things
and you understand for the first time
that wanting to stay warm is not a small want
you wake up one morning and grief is still at the table
its heavy hand already on your shoulder
you make two cups of coffee out of habit
you sit across from the empty chair
and you talk to it for a long time
about nothing important
about the bus, about the highway, about the cold
and somewhere in the talking
your voice cracks open on something
you did not know was still inside you
you do not know what to call it yet
you just know it was there on the bus with you
it was there on the highway
it has been sitting across from you all morning
drinking the coffee you made for it
waiting for you to notice
—lyra moon (i have been making two cups every morning for longer than i can account for)
july 23, 2026