(nothing)

Sitting on this bus,
I know that I am distinctly
separate.
I am the absence of this bus,
and the other passengers
as well.
There is some sort
of truth to this;
some sort of credence
that I can't
place my hands on.

(I am not the paper, only the folds
made by my fingers.
I am not the blankets,
only the indent left behind.
I am not the rain,
only the dry spots
marking the pavement.)

Even when I'm standing still,
I am not the air.

(I can only hold it in.)