your silent face
as you sat opposite me at Wembley Park station.
Our diagonal faces would meet
in between your gleeful feasts of Werther’s sweets
yet it wasn’t the re-emergence of your youth before each bite
that enticed my distant admiration.
A quiet content expression
with each passing electrical cable through the window drawing me back.
I was lost in your reflection.
Too London to hold a gaze into that soft expression
Too rush hour to let my smile be welcomed into your world.
“The next station is Baker Street.”