It’s now 9:02 and the blue bubble,
lonely, surrounded
by an infinite sea of
blank space, is waiting
for the phantom girl’s response.
Waiting to see her blonde hair,
so blonde it’s as if the sun reached down
and licked it,
streaming over her shoulders
down her terracotta back,
her slate blue eyes
rustic and industrial,
her cherry nails,
the paint freshly dried.
Waiting to feel her small warm hands
sliding down my back,
her pale pink lips
brushing against mine,
letting me taste the mint gum
she had chewed on the train earlier,

It’s now 9:03, and the blue bubble still
sits alone.
There had been some hope this time,
but now I can feel her summer blonde hair coiling itself around my neck,
like a snake around a tree,
squeezing until the last
breath of optimism escapes my bloated lips.