Watching him
*******
makes me glad.

I don’t.

The soft burning candle flame
dripping liquid wax,
melting
as the passion scolds those
too bold and free.
A pressed moment;
bodies pressed together
- communion.

Like meat-machines *******…
is that what you said?
(are you dead? and if not,
why am I talking to the sky?)

As she lay in my bed
words floated and thoughts drifted
I knew what I had, or
was supposed to do.

I tried and I tried, but
I just couldn’t make it
I cried, then I died
in the darkness.

She was there - was she mine?
I just didn’t know,
So I sat silently smoking and
let it all go.

She was my twelve thirty girl
on the twelve thirty bus
I shouldn’t have seen her
I was due at ten
I didn’t talk
she didn’t mind
just lay back and closed her eyes
through the music
I wandered
wondered  who she was.

It didn’t matter
two hours gone
when the music stopped
I still spoke none
by that time it was almost one forty.

I missed the bus
a mechanical failure
and worried about home.
It would still be there
I knew that
but something had broken down.
I was late
behind myself
I had nightmarish thoughts
of escaping myself
and not being able to catch up.

I met myself years later
by chance
by a bus stop
but ran away again
before I could speak.

The journey was a novel
without a central character
written one bored year by some body
with nothing better to do

Two hours and twenty minutes
(three hundred and sixty-one days
almost eight hundred pages)
long.

The journey
(complete and unabridged)
is over.

There was a ******* the bus
with a face like an angel
pure white
brilliant white
and eyes that showed a century’s memory
Her hair
like her manner
was soft and natural
and her mouth cried out to be kissed
No body could, though,
kiss that mouth
They tried
but still she was left alone
looking like an angel and slightly dead.