We sat on the curb,
Waiting for a bus that would never come

It felt incredible,
Sticky hands from melted popsicles,
Warm skin from the heat,
Strands of hair being blown into my face
And yet I did not mind.

I like the sticky, sweaty, ticklish mess on that
curb
Back then I didn’t care about those kind of
things,
I wasn’t formed enough to care
What was important to me was that
moment in that old town

I’m older now.
Too old to be a child and too young to be
seen as an adult,
I fluctuate between freedom and
responsibility,
Clinging onto a childhood I felt was cut shirt

I go back to that town and everything is
different,
The sun doesn’t warm my skin the same,
The popsicles aren’t sweet,
Hair doesn’t blow in my face because
You are no longer there.

So I do what I can,
Sitting on the curb, doing everything that
makes me uncomfortable,
Not to linger but to say goodbye.
The curb cracked the same, the bus stop
sign still covered in dirt,
There are rocks in my shoe and flies on my
popsicle

I stand up and move forward, it is all I can
do.