You ask me which way is westbound,
as we wait around in London Bridge tube station,
for some kind of miracle to occur,
some kind of magic where I am miraculously made aware of where I’m going,
and my confident stride is finally earned.
It doesn’t come.
I put my palms across the wall,
splayed as I display a lack of direction,
asking my hands which is right,
which is left,
and then, I am left with embarrassment as I remember that this wasn’t even the question that you asked.
My cheeks are cherries,
soothed a little by the sweetness of your kiss,
as we step away from my shyness and ask for directions.
You are direct,
kissing me again,
my lips this time,
clearly sensing they were envious of my embarrassed but abundant cheeks.
You spoil the rest of me,
so fevered, against the silver of the platform walls,
kissing like we are fated to teach the world about love,
smiling into each other’s mouths,
like we are the first girls to discover this passionate pastime.
We miss several trains,
but we don’t miss each other,
and that’s all that feels important.