the boy on the bus.

Sitting two rows ahead and one seat to the right,
he rhythmically drums his fingers on a pile of notebooks
almost the same way you played me Chopin Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2.
The time your ears burned and you kept apologizing for messing up,
when I was so utterly captivated I'd hardly noticed.


The way he delicately folds his ticket in half until it can't fold anymore
reminds me of how you folded each one differently,
how you kept them in a jar, and how I fell in love with the way
you smiled and called them souvenirs from your adventures.


His fingers scratch the back of his neck near the exact way you did,
the times we first talked and you'd get so nervous
your face turned the loveliest shade of red
and we'd sit in unusually comfortable silence
whenever you ran out of things to say.


But once I step onto pavement and turn to look,
I'm greeted by the window's glare,
then staring into ongoing traffic
with a thousand questions running through my head,
and a “hi” on the edge of my tongue
that didn't have the opportunity to escape my lips.



Simply left standing,
wondering if it was really you
or if it was just
another boy on the bus.