Love them, hate them, fuck them. Usually in that order.

Night Bus

On the night bus, saying goodbye to the boy. Last hug, last kisses, longed-for time brought to an end. Left to stew in the memories. You've come back to this time and again, a different boy at every station. Beauty is impermanence, time is a flat circle, yada yada. Time and experience has numbed the goodbyes.

You'll crave that lapse and reprieve from worry. Him and his world are one and the same. Him and Tehran. Him and Tokyo. Him and Paris. The solace of his company in a foreign land. Interpreter, guide, lover, friend and companion, a shortcut to intimacy forged by that fleeting connection. You know it's a shadow of the real thing, but we make do with what we're given.

You cried for him in Tokyo—over kissing in the middle of Shibuya crossing, hands held in quiet lanes, solidarity with a stranger you'd never met before but feel for unlike anyone else.

You loved him in Tehran—for the road trip into the mountains, standing on the shores of the Caspain Sea, his every tender kiss a question to which your answer is a desperate yes.

And you write for him now on the night bus—over dancing in tiny clubs, the breathtaking views from the Montmarte, the escape from real life into the complete fantasy that is this weekend in Paris.

You know it's a lie. Repetition won't change things. Knowing doesn't alter the outcome—time and experience will never numb the goodbyes.