He stood at the bus stop,
In the evening summer heat.
With each passing minute,
A bead of sweat sprung on
the furrows of his forehead.
His bus arrived, he felt a
matter-of-fact attitude in
its approach, a service,
for him and many others.
With no place to sit, he
stood by the body high windows,
that bared the world outside.
A faint stream of cool air,
blew at his hair from above,
Beads of sweat left him one-by-one,
Giving relief which seemed
A luxury until now,
Incessant banter and chatter
of others around, dimmed the
cool comfort he briefly felt.
The conductor neared him,
As the bus wobbled and swayed,
He showed him the travel pass,
In his wallet, the conductor
left to check on others.
he saw the familiar image,
trying to peek from the wallet,
He opened it and brought it
closer, Her photograph,
Much more valuable than
anything his wallet ever
held.
He swallowed glimpses of her,
which seemed to numb
his senses and surroundings,
The banter and chatter
went mute,
The wobbling and swaying
lost motion,
The bare world outside,
turned opaque..
He lost balance in this state,
of non-interactiveness.
Which jolted him out of his
romantic reverie.
He looked out, at the bare
outside world.
It didn't seem familiar..
It happened again..
He missed where he had to
get out.,
He missed where they were
to meet.
He had lost his way.....
-nanda
