Boy on a Bus
If you ask them, they don’t know.
Yet they see that on my face it shows,
Something different, something warm,
The butterflies in my belly gaily swarm.
It may be the way she’s passionate,
Or the way she fights hate,
Or her raspy voice over the phone and in Voice Notes,
Or how I’d think of her and take notes,
Or the missing “h” in most of her words,
Or the fear in my heart that for me she may never spare a word,
Or the “oh my God” inducing smile or frown,
Or the “damn” I mutter watching her on her nursing gown,
All the people on my bus know,
Is that the lady whose picture I smile at means more to me than I may ever show.
© The Nomad