| She sat there like a photograph
|
| Of someone much further away
|
| We shared a brief bus stop
|
| On one of those in-between days
|
| She gave me her smile
|
| And i looked underneath
|
| At the lipstick on her teeth
|
| She asked me for a light
|
| And if i thought her hair looked okay
|
| We grew out of the small talk
|
| Into stuff strangers just don’t say
|
| We discovered we are both
|
| Pleasantly furious half of the time
|
| When we’re not just toeing the line
|
| We sat underneath the shelter
|
| As the rain came down outside
|
| The bench was cold
|
| Against the underside of our thighs
|
| I said i think we need new responses
|
| Each question’s a revolving door
|
| And she said, yeah
|
| My life may not be something special
|
| But it’s never been lived before
|
| We decided our urgency will wane
|
| When we grow old
|
| And there will be a new generation of anger
|
| New stories to be told
|
| But i said, i don’t know if i can wait
|
| For that peace to be mine
|
| And she said, well, you know
|
| We’ve been waiting for this bus
|
| For an awfully long time |