she wasn’t the most beautiful woman,
(those fairy eyelashes…)

and his face wasn’t much to write home about,
(that kindness in his glance…)

But sitting across from them on the subway car,
(these headphones playing nothing…)

I saw the most open, tender love.
(this desire mixed with pity…)

unpretentious and easy,
The rest of us should ever be so lucky.

He with closed eyes
and she—seeing the world over fringe of
singular arresting beauty–
kisses his shoulder.

A gentle nudge says,

I am not yours, you are not mine–
We are.
Even on this crowded, smelling subway car,
My darling so dear,
We are.

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