the bus poem - part eighteen; skylines

My neck is splinched

because I got a text from you.

My pulse aches

because there is a couple

sat out of the corner of my eye.

She’s asleep on his shoulder,

he’s smiling into her hair.

They look young,

about 19,

they look like you and I,

when we’re quietly awake in your bedroom,

doing nothing besides being there.

They look like they could be you and I,

travelling across the country

to new and shitty cities

that seem delighted

when you become another shape in their skyline.