PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We’re sitting on a bus one Friday noon,

Your shoulder pressed lightly into mine,

And there’s an aged man across the aisle

Counting paper bills like it matters.

You keep tapping your fingers on your knee

While listening to a random top-40 hit,

And I notice how your sleeve slips down

Just enough to show your vintage wristwatch.

You laugh at something I didn’t catch,

Maybe a funny image flashing through your memory,

And I try to remember it exactly...

The sharp pitch, the empty glance, the pause after.

I know you’re right here next to me,

Close enough to trace your wrinkles,

But I’m already thinking of later,

How deafening quiet everything will be.

I’ll lie awake and try to hold this;

The way your voice fills passing spaces,

The way your subtle presence settles in...

And how quickly it disappears.