Fung Wah Ghost

The windows begin to chirp. Bulbs toward the belly of the bus are green as pool lights in an algae-coated night. They comfort her. She longs to be tiny as a child floating over the seats, parting hair as she went, brushing eyelashes with the most tenderness she could bare. She could invisibly touch strangers' wrists together, place their heartbeats into the same rhythm. If she rides long enough, everything will be possible. --- Billboard for The Cremation Society advertises: Cremation. Simple. Dignified. Affordable. Just as she is thinking how nice it would be have some one fall asleep on her breast. How deeply she wishes to comfort. How cold she feels without a body. Heat is anonymous. When she left the seat and as another took it, all the heat spoke for no one.