On the night bus staring through windows into peoples
lives. Why don't they draw the curtains? Baffled, I move
ever onwards to my destination. Homeward bound. My
hair a mess, lenses dry, eyes weary, my face still red from
the time we spent in your bed. Do you think anyone
knows? Can they smell the sweat that lingers or see the
imprints of your hands? I stare back to the passing
windows, an indulgent voyeur; I glide past in my carriage
and wonder if anyone had the pleasure of watching us?