In my existence
of that which includes yours
in a film of blurry imagery and fuzzy concepts,
I choose to run my fingers
through the velvet skin of your strong cheekbones.
I feel a twitch of your jaw,
a dimple emerging from a cheeky smile of a bitten lip.
a blue ocean of delightful waves with sweeping lashes of a thousand streams of unconscious discoveries.
Your insanely sculpted face,
a perfection of the universe’s hands.
I spot your hands covered in the dust of blond hair,
veins jumping on the surface.
I gasp and drop my gaze slyly.
The bus rambles on in endless noises of friction and corners,
I cast epileptic glances,
shy and focused,
sometimes broken down by
Maskinagentur, vestre rosten, lundåsen
Phil Collins’s I wish it would rain down goes on,
I wonder what is it that you are thinking.
Oblivious to your beauty,
you sit motionless disconnected from the world,
aggrandizing the halo of your perfection.
Strong legs clad in faded blue jeans,
masculine knees bent 90 degrees to perfection.
And before I realize,
the doors open and you are gone.