In the rustic terminal, he is waiting

but not wanting to go, hoping

that every arriving bus doesn’t carry

the sign leading to Avenida.


Not that he hates the place,

he just knows Avenida too well—

not much about its notoriety,

or the queer but inviting trades—

but because as soon as it welcomes him,

he knows he has to depart from it, unguided,

finding himself lost in its lights, every time.


This he feels not from fear, but from difference—

of the abundance of being the province gives,

and the denial of the city to grant the same.


But despite this, he continues

to convince himself of the need to repeatedly travel to it—

although the city needs him less than he does—

living in the dream of choosing the future,

and recognizing the long wait for a good one.


Now, as soon as the dreaded vehicle arrives,

he just needs to believe that leaving

is the only way to go back again.


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