I see you.
I see you looking at me, and I see you when you aren't.
I see you when you get on the bus, at 8:03 sharp. I count the seconds to the third minute and I count the steps it takes you to reach the seat in the back.
Your shoes are dusty, and your nails are chewed.
Your hands carry a pile of loose sheets, always threatening to run free but you hold them to your chest, tightly.
You've got strong hands, but chewed nails. Killer grip but soft skin.
You sit in the back, always choosing the window seat, alone yet occupied with yourself.
I don't know what you see, but you look like you're enjoying. You smile to yourself but never at me.
I wonder if you even see me. You look at me but you don't see me.
Your hair is hard to ignore, black and bold. Brittle and lustrous. And you push it away with those chewed nailed fingers.
I think of you as I get off at my stop, as I eat, as I work, as I talk.
I wait for 5. When the sun is low and we are back under the same roofed bus. The same floored bus. And you're five seats ahead. Seven steps ahead. You're chirpier on your way back. You make small talk and your loose pages are stuffed in your brown leather handbag. I can see the corners peeking out. Sharp corners. I want to reach out, to tuck them in, lest you get paper cuts.
You smile at the kid with a finger in his mouth, and search for candies in your handbag. You apologize for being such a mess.
A mess that I can clean.
But you see, I always get off of the bus before you. I don't know where you live.
I see you everyday, and today's not any different. You got off work late and you're breathless, you stumble a little as the bus starts moving. And I count your steps. But something is not right. I lift my chin and you drop in the seat next to me. And I see you. This time, you smile.
I was wrong. I know where you live. My heart, that's where.
