You sit on that ***** bus seat,
all seraphic and glowing-
hovering above the filth.
The beauty your body possesses
makes my heart flutter
and my eyes avert-
unable to bear the spotless, striking
quality of your shining form.
But beneath That is what?
Under this gleaming exterior what is there:
If we were to peel back the skin of
your perfectly symmetrical face;
dislodge those glittering green eyes
to look within-
into your true essence;
that thing that,
exists inside your faultlessly proportioned
mass of tissue and bone.
Who are you?
Your name doesn't matter.
Jane, Justine, Charlotte;
**** all that.
what are you other than beauty-
other than a twitter handle,
or your favourite food;
Other than your preference of hot beverage.
I want to know you,
When you breathe,
what do you feel?
When you sit on this bus, gliding through streets
and past buildings,
are you over-whelmed by the magnitude of it all?
When you step from your little man-made cave in the morning
and above you,
instead of a closed off ceiling,
is the seeming boundlessness of space,
Do you wonder how the **** we can all just keep going on
and not loose our minds at the slightest
glimpse of this stark, partial reality?
Tell me all this,
You're just a ******* a bus,
and I'm just the guy who falls in love with possibilities.