What if every day
our knees touched
in seats made for such
on the train?
One day, they’d have touched so long
we’d have an electricity all our own
but we’d never ask
each other’s name.
The changing seasons out our window
would be our timeline – honeymoons
of fancy over hilltops far off, we’d take
long traipses hand in hand with dreams.
It would be too late for familiarities
beyond the scent of your shampoo
or the static of my stockings
against your slacks.
Still, we would know
our love was
the shade of each other’s eyes, divine
and for an hour every morning
gliding towards our separate lives
we’d be entwined in details
hopelessly, perfectly, quietly