The Last Bus at the Foggy Square

The square still glows in midnight Light. A lone bus waits in quiet hush. I'm standing here, Coat in hand. March still chills like a silent heart. The wind slips past my fragile coat. Perhaps it's Paris saying goodbye. I softly stare Onto the stair. Each footfall touches memory's Thread. Who knows where we're meant to go? Can yesterday's gaze be left behind? A tiny dream, I leave it There On a café chair Beside the road. The driver hums and starts the dial. An old jazz tune from long ago. I do not cry, Just fall quiet. Like this old town, Not yet awake. As wheels begin to kiss the Stone, I glance back once at bricks and lamps. Every detail sharply Framed. Already etched As part of me. Who knows where we're meant to go? Can yesterday's gaze be left behind? A tiny dream, I leave it there On a café chair beside the Road. The last bus leaves, no one Waves. Only the fog knows where I'll Go.