Stockholm Winter

The smoke from our bodies as we wait for the number 4 bus.
Streetlights painting the snow yellow.
Rubber studs ripping into the ice.
All steaming; people, cars, humid windows.
On the bus red faced teenagers share ipod headphones, smiling.
Looking at each other with disproportionate bodies.
Their secret is safe.

An old women in a tick gray jacket eating an orange, piece by piece.
Looks like a ritual.
The gray bus floor damp from melted snow.
Small stones rolling around as the bus turns.
Parents with strollers enter.
Ecological hats and proud smiles.
A teenage girl in all black gets off, a bored smile next to her rented DVD movie.
Her breath all smoke below the street light.
Doors closes.

I leave, walk on the commuter train platform.
Middle-aged women in middle aged bodies and new jackets.
Smile and wave goodbye to a friend.
Young couples warming each other in thick jackets.
Immigrant teenagers in glossy black jackets smoke cigarettes.
A beer can left on the platform.
Looks at me gloomily.

Foggy glasses as I enter the train.
A suntanned couple in their mid-60s sit with their luggage.
Looking at the dark winter outside, pulling up their jackets.
Smiling at each other.
Acknowledging that they are back.
A smile without happiness.
Yellow industrial areas and smoking chimneys as we cut through the silent night.
Our train is just one more train cutting to another night.

Jens Lekman singing:
You could be that someone
You could be that someone
You could be that someone
You could be that someone
You could be that someone

Door open and we silently walk through the snow covered landscape.
With our hoods and smoking lungs.
Thinking it all came too soon.
It always comes too soon.


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