I stare
At the busy, boring pattern of the velour seat.
So many shades of brown
And not one of them a match
For the beauty of your skin.
I picture you beside me,
Long and lean
Smelling of spice and whiskey cream
I watch your nipple harden
And pucker the seam
Beneath your shirt.

I pause
And we drift into uncertain slumber.
You are no longer mine
Just another stranger.
A fingernail scratches
My upturned wrist
Clenching me tight
Your fingertips twitch,
And though you are distant
Absorbed in the window passing by
Your signal is clear.

Echo
Loudly breathless in an empty carriage.
Scared of their judgement
Their sideways glances.
Your hand caresses
Slipping down between
My knees, my thighs,
Outrageous, obscene
You throw your green
Coat over my caution
Always it seems
I come without trying.

All Rights Reserved, Alicia Fitton 2016

If you liked Rhythm and Motion, read The Calling…