The bus sways like a tired metronome,
its rhythm punctuated by the jangle of loose bolts.
A man in the back hums a love song off-key,
his voice cracked like a worn violin,
but still, he sings.

Next to me, a girl sketches a bird
on the fogged window,
its wings stretching to where the skyline ends.
Her pencil drags through the condensation,
and the city beyond dissolves.

This is music, too—
the rain against the roof, the engine’s tired sigh,
the melody of strangers aching quietly together.
When the girl leaves,
her bird vanishes with her,
but I carry its flight
in the hollow of my chest all the way home.