I will sit at a bus station
and ask a stranger when she first knew she was in love.

She’ll look at me, eyes smiling with pride,
and tell me tales and feelings
that only connected hearts could know.

She’ll dance to the sweet tune of her old story,
savouring every word that springs from her like a clear note.
She’ll weave her words like an ancient priestess,
and I’ll let her dance in the music of her memory.

I will watch with the quiet interest of a cat,
observing, absorbing it all.

And then, with delighted eyes, she’ll ask me back.
But I’ll have nothing to say except:
“The first time I talked to a stranger who was willing to share.”

I don’t know if that’s love,
but I know my heart skipped a beat.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Brad Rucker on Unsplash