La La Vetala

I first saw her at the stoplights by the cemetery. She was staring from the greyhound like a fine porcelain relic. Past and future choking in her silt-brown eyes, fell out of them just like a river. I click my tongue, a barrage of bugs hurl their brittle bodies at the glass. I feel her sigh. Lift my rotting lids, a broken fly wing flutters on the window almost touching her wet cheek, so close it aches. I want her. As the lights turn green, start running fast as these torn calves will take me, skin fanning out behind me like sportsday streamers.
Now I spend my nights weaving time, following that bus as it shuttles back and forth from Illinois to Reno, hopping bodies, over and over, just to watch her daydream.
Soon. I’m going to run those curls through my fingers. Draw them down the curve of her neck. Touch her inside her jeans and listen to the way she moans, low and long. She’s so pretty when she cries. One day I’ll be on the other side of that window watching myself weep like that in the reflection. Sinking her like sediment in that beautiful brunette head.
Someday I’m gonna be that girl.