You said it was my sigh
one of desolation, dissent,
that prompted you
that ubiquitously grey day,
to place your soul on that frigid, wooden bench
at a bus stop of all places,
right beside mine.

You made a comment
where was I going,
dressed so sharp and solemn,
with a distinct aura of resignation,
and startled from my reverie
the fog was blown from my mind,
by you, so cool and clear.

You tell me now
that you had no real reason
besides perhaps a distant curiosity,
to sit by me in the brisk twilight.
But as I boarded the bus,
not far behind,
I planted myself right next to you.

It was then you claim you knew,
that the rest was history.