When the bus leaves, the street mourns. Roads flake like wallpaper paste. The streetlights are bitter like soap, so the night chews it up and spits it into blandness, dust. The clouds press themselves down like lips draw ghosts on the windowpane. The sky bends inwards like wax, threads silence between crosswalks. Smoke hangs over the tarmac, brittle like an empty house– home is elsewhere, and you with it.