And tell me why I make such fuss
About a boy across from me sitting on the bus,
I try to keep his features running in my head
Such lust is a spiritual death.
I could not agree more but his style,
Costs my eyes a side dart and a red smile,
But something I tell you that I really must
Talk to this boy sitting next to me on the bus,
Maybe he thinks something of me, it goes to show, I can't stop staring he probably knows,
Or I am something unnerving to him,
What if I am?
Where would I meet him sometime,
Our only crossroad is a bus jam
Packed with everybody going back and forth,
But I cannot keep your face straight, what's the worst?
I hope you someday will talk to me,
But hope is not my reality.
