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.

OddOdysseyPoet

Poem 1.7k

you have your way 
I have mine -
in the end