He got on the train and sat next to me
As though I had invited him,
Wearing your hands
And your eyes.
And suddenly I was chocking
on that intoxicating mix
of horror and longing,
suffocated by the gooseflesh blooming
in rashes under my dress.
I kept my hands on my lap –
kept my lips very still,
my head from bending toward him,
praying that he could not see
my face betraying me to memory.
Careening through darkened tunnels,
beholden to the tracks relentless direction,
I wondered if I provoke
something in unsuspecting travelers.
Would one fall at my feet in remorse?
Would someone kiss me with shinning gratitude?
Would one turn cold with recognition?
Or would there be nothing
but the silence of another day
waiting to be filled?