As soon as the bus shudders
from the gate, I lie down in the big seat
at the back, one leg pressed close behind
the other, knees conferring quietly
like second grade best friends.
I'm grateful no one's sitting next to me,
for the space to sprawl.

Sleeping like this helps me when we're apart;
the comfort of my own body becomes
a substitute for yours. When I pull
one leg away, the other feels the absence,
a spot of cold where the other was,
like when you let go of my hand
after holding it tight for a while.

The bus is cold, my leather jacket not
as warm as you would be. I hate it
for what it lacks. The swath of eggyolk
sunlight through the hazy window grime
is small comfort, or none at all.

The light reminds me how we wake canting
like unfurling ferns towards the window,
leaning into the meager light of morning.
How the golden thing in both of us
turns us in our sleep towards the sun.
We wake reaching for it, that heat.