/lit/ - Literature

This is probably my favorite thing I've written. I posted it a while ago under a different trip

Last nights you told me
about the meaning of death and I shrugged it off
in the panels of a bus, where
the last nights are patriotic, and recall themselves.
And this went on, you said, but won't,
but will not if I will it, naught but if the nights
were of themselves, so I lost you there, and
asked where to stop, where
you said the stops were always going,
were they stopping? they were coming.
And that is where i lost you lost me,
turned to the aisle and became it, stretched,
lurching to the front, the teeth
of the driver, the prodding and picking,
I cannot speak. The bus was my lungs
that you left in the hall of the aisle
and emptied the cupboard
and dried up the spill
and lived vicariously,
beautifully, in the nights.