Finn and Annika

The hours slip away but the only proof of time is the setting sun falling off the horizon like loose rocks on a cliff. I sit as a witness to the noise, to the engine’s murmur, the constant hum, a stowaway mouse. Your head on my shoulder is comparable to an anvil, but I was taught to be patient so I stay anchored. In my confinement I notice the leaves outside my window seem to fall in a pattern: red, yellow, brown, or maybe it was brown, red, yellow. Now I forget if there were even yellow leaves at all. I really can’t think with your head on my shoulder. I glance at my wrist watch and realize we have four more hours on this God forsaken bus. Four more hours of your crushing weight. But then I look at you and your eyelashes. I follow your breath as it comes and goes, falling under your hypnotic exhales. I sink deeper in my seat, chastising, glorifying, grieving. I am not courageous and I cannot support your weight. Yet I find myself here with your andvil on one shoulder, and weightless leaves on the other.