Eight. Eleven a.m
You stood by
The shutting door
Perhaps been weeks
Perhaps been months
Glad to see you again

A disappearing friend
Tempted to connect
Yet no where to start with
Not even knowing your name

To whom, as I wrote
Only way to ink your side face
As you fade with the rush hour train

Finding myself looking for a familiar backpack, EarPods with glasses
Not caring it's sign for being late
Almost wish to see you next day
A little spark in the mundane