Transit

The bus leaves without me.

I don’t run.

There’s a bakery across the street I’ve never been inside.

I don’t go in.

Instead I stand there,

hands in the pockets of a jacket

I only wear when I’m not sure where I’m going.

It still smells like him.

Faintly — like something borrowed,

not returned.

Someone passes with flowers,

wrapped in cheap paper.

Their face is unreadable.

The kind of beautiful

you only notice in retrospect.

I check my phone,

not for anything in particular —

just to be seen doing it.

A list waits in the Notes app.

Groceries, maybe.

Or apologies.

I don’t open it.

A breeze lifts the hem of my skirt.

The sky is the kind of gray

that doesn’t mean anything yet.

And I think —

maybe I’ve already made the choice.

Maybe I’m just waiting

to catch up to it.