A tiny spec

We don’t understand how the brain works
Or if out there there might be more than one earth

Why the man on the bus next to me has no home but the seat next to me
And why dictators keep winning and rising on the ashes of the millions of dreams

Alone on the bus, I head to a couch I lay on to weep and share secret fantasies

I pay three dollars a minute to tell an old man about despair, panic, longing, love
No originality in my words and sentiments but the leftovers of an Arabic French accent

I leave feeling lighter noticing a faint breath
An ache in my breast

I am but a little tiny spec
Made out of matter but does she matter?