little pieces locked away in tiny boxes: Tales from the London Underground

I climb unto the train at Holloway road. It’s the Piccadilly line. For some reason I have always preferred this line to all the others.

Your nose brushes his shoulder. You’ve placed your hand on his lap.

Your fingers stroke his thighs absentmindedly.

You’ve removed your hand now, it’s crawling up his side. It’s found his hand now, your fingers have found his. They’re gloriously entwined now. The need to twitch is gone.

I know that you want him. You don’t care where you are. No, you need him. The air is thick with it. I can almost taste it.

I remember what it feels like to be needed and wanted as you need and want him. For the first time in a long time I doubt my self imposed bachelordom.

I watch the two of you without envy knowing that my time will come soon. But these are thoughts for another day. The train has stopped on Gloucester road and I must now change for the circle line. I take a mental picture at the couple in the corner and hope that I never forget what intimacy looks like.

Happy Days,
Afam