By convincing himself
that there was nothing left behind,
he departed
from his dormitory, it was as if every road
the tricycle took led
to the rusty terminal of Avenida.
As he arrived, he hurried—
bought a ticket, then rode the bus.
It was always how fast he can.
He waited for it to be full,
but it had never felt full,
occupied, but never full.
As the vehicle started to move,
he realized there were things he left behind,
but too big to fit inside his bags.
There was nothing he could do
but in that moment, he knew
that ride shall not be the last,
but the last of what he knew was certain.
With accepting this—
that even the seemingly, infinitely
repetitive times of travelling end—
he sat with such comfortability,
as he found rest
in endings.
