The back of the bus

They sit in the back of the bus,

the shimmer of secrecy ignited in their eyes,

her head in his lap, his hands in her hair,

her lips twisted in that sickening smile. My neck aches 

from looking behind me, and my

heart drops like a rock in the pond of my daydreams

when he laughs that 

perfect 

laugh

at something she says. 

His blue eyes skim over me--does he know I've started looking at him?

On the bus, in English class?--

pushes aside those perfect golden-brown curls, as he leans over to listen to what she's saying. 

His girlfriend, with her dark hair, her wide smile,

her endlessly brown eyes,

his girlfriend who I've followed and unfollowed a million times over across the internet,

does she know she has everything I want, everything I dream of,

think about at night, wonder what it would be like

to have?

In the palm of her hands, right there, within his smile he saves for her,

his protective arm snaking around her back,

the way he holds her bags for her

as she puts on her coat and laughs to her friends, showing off,

Look! He's carrying everything!

(why does nobody carry everything for me? why do i have to drop my belongings if i need to put my coat on in the middle of the hallway? i suppose some questions are better left unanswered.)

I bet she likes his hair and his smile, 

his sense of humor and the way he laughs.

She likes him the way I like him--maybe

she thinks about him when he's alone, listens to love songs and imagines him.

(If so, I understand her.)

Except

he doesn't see her as a random girl in some of his classes 

who hardly ever speaks--

he sees her as someone who makes his day

filled with the glimmer of something special

under the deep, forlorn grey of a

dreary New Hampshire winter sky--

and so

she gets to hold his hand and sit in the back of the bus

with her head in his lap and his hands in her hair

while I crane my neck to catch the tiniest glimpse of him.