The next stop

I'm sitting on the 8:15
On a Monday morning
Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl throw a dirty look out the window.
Phone in her hand.
In front of me I see a boy
Going through sent messages
His foot is tapping
He checks his inbox
Again and again
Phones in hands
Angry faces

Or is it good news he is waiting for
An apology
An acceptance
A joke

My phone holds the wreckage
of several relationships
Each one deleted afterwards
To spare me from the memory
Of how I failed at being the perfect someone

To break out of the phone
To look up and recognise
Your fears and frustrations
In the faces

It makes it easier
Maybe

But not really.