London – Leeds/Early August/Seat Six By The Window

You’re tired. You’re reading a book.

Your glasses are hitched on your head -
usefully holding back that piece of hair that persisted in
falling across your line of sight as you lent into the book.

Your left hand cradles your head, not in support but in absent playfulness.
You are slouching a little - your breasts look wonderful
Like I imagine they would when you lay down to sleep.

Your lips are curvaceous.
Luscious without being domineering.
Each contour curving towards it’s own individuality.

Your eyebrows sit ever so gently above brown eyes
pounded with sleep-thoughts momentarily “tamed”.
But God if they were to lock on to you, you’d die
as soon as they looked away.

Nose and chin in parallel - so Nobel!
Your hand is telling how you are distracted from
your book, but not by us.

That’s what it is about your lips - they do not
sit dormant when stationary but are moving forward.
As if to place the most gentle kiss
on a sleeping lover’s brow.

I cannot smell you but
I imagine what I’d smell if I was close enough.
A clean/soapy smell, imbued with a few
beads of perspiration
from throughout your long day.
A smell that tells of your perfection as a woman.

What is she reading?

She’s stroking her chest with left fingertips and Oh(!) I want to be there!

Such a gentle half-act and such a reaction to it.