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, although invisible, 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, 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, tell me.
You can't.
You're just a ******* a bus, and I'm just the guy who falls in love with possibilities.