Young Lovers

On

 

the bus

their world

 

the seat just
ahead of mine.

She reads Vogue.

He thumbs his cell.
Frequently they turn, kissing,
slightly puckered. Unwitting witness
– voyeur – I turn away,

 

return to my book, but
can’t focus on the page,

recalling once when we were 
new lovers: your breath staccato 

on my shoulder, my hands

 

on your buttocks so sweat-slick 

I couldn’t grip to carry you 

upstairs after perching on the stool.

I slipped and we collapsed, shrieking

panicked laughter, though we stayed unscathed – 

I almost miss my bus stop! 

​

I watch the young lovers drive off, 
faces inches apart. Heading home, I taste 

your stomach’s sweat salt stinging my tongue.

I remember that freckle at the base 

of your neck. Stepping on, smallest world,
its gravity drew me in. Spinning again,
I grip the wheel, breathless now, accelerating.