Washed in the image of noon; hoping to meet by five-
waiting patiently in a bus; so empty that different spaces
exist, not to be used. Can’t be late; seated in a dead silent
bus ride, as all manners of conversation are late
My own scent betrays me; foretelling the amount
of a day’s work; as the weekend is a fondest dream,
There’s still yesterday’s coffee stuck on my shirt,
stained in the privacy of four walls; where I get to see
touch, and embrace you once again
…the only true reason I look forward to
the end of the day- my woman, my lady.
Jul 23, 2024
Jul 23, 2024 at 11:58 AM UTC
Washed in the image of noon; hoping to meet by five-
waiting patiently in a bus; so empty that different spaces
exist, not to be used. Can’t be late; seated in a dead silent
bus ride, as all manners of conversation are late
My own scent betrays me; foretelling the amount
of a day’s work; as the weekend is a fondest dream,
There’s still yesterday’s coffee stuck on my shirt,
stained in the privacy of four walls; where I get to see
touch, and embrace you once again
…the only true reason I look forward to
the end of the day- my woman, my lady.
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