Boarded

Writing about love, unlove, relationships, intimacy, passion, I find hardest of all.
Perhaps because I am so used to obscuring my feelings behind layers of dissemblance, for fear of what lies beneath.

Tonight, aboard a bus bound for home, I turned over the throwaway lines from a film which already I have exactly garbled, but the meaning still resonates
"possibly she's afraid of being hurt and so she protects herself by hurting, and in so doing, she guarantees that she will be hurt."

Not this time, I think.
Maybe.

The sleepy bed-bound bus slides past night's light reflections
hidden
behind
layers
of curling flapping damp mouldy ply
who knows what truths are secreted?