I expect I will run into his arms when I see him again.
Perhaps the odd nervous butterfly,
searching my throat for escape.
Wide smiles like the milky moon
that floats above his face, as I pick up my bag.
Some kind of instrumental chorus in my veins
as my bus draws up, or even
a kind of blind passion awakening inside,
red as a quickly-beating heart.
Maybe I will be caught still, netted in
by his warm scent, and feel at home
in the creases of his sweater.

But my palms are sweaty as the bus draws in.
Fingers self-conciously smooth
messy, just-travelled hair and clothes.
My bag bumps along the seats.
There’s a nervous smile, an awkward hug.
I don’t know where to put my bag; I was never much good
at this whole romantic, instrumental chorus thing.
As for blind passion, I’ve always preferred
an open-eyed dialogue.
He smells of Lynx and a little like
the gel I always ask him not to wear.
I wait to be netted in, then think: well,
I’m not a fish, and this milky moon
won’t persuade me to be caught. I was never much good
at the whole romantic, instrumental thing.

Still, as he takes my hand
a solitary butterfly escapes 
from between my lips, and dances towards the moon.