Bus Stop #2

Chasing an eyelash as it draws its outlines for sight to fill in. What do I see. What was missed.

I feel the missing skin on my back. As I reach again to quell that eternal itch.

Following the tiny hairs as they mimic the shape of his skin. A cruel optical illusion that tells me he can be touched.

Not tonight.

Nor tomorrow.

Or any yesterday we have in common.

If the night hears the thoughts we don't speak it never tells. A mirror without a face. A poet with a beer. Word after word stitching open wounds with imaginary thread.

Where there is no cure, there is only the lure of the disease. The sweet sensation of chocolate melting on my tongue. Dying softly into what consumes it.

I could hitch a ride on these habits and go too far. It only takes, but pocket change, to buy a ticket out of their hearts.