A flower suitcase and a kind face. Barely spoke two words as i offered to mind her things. And she accepted, trusting me, a stranger. A two-second encounter I replay when I'm lovesick. Her brown eyes and brassy hair, she told me she rode her bike in Benin. And it felt like a secret, or an invite, I’m not sure. I stuttered over a story, telling her I rode the bus round Belfast. I like to think we could have been each other’s home. If we weren’t so shy, or life wasn’t so busy. Or if we weren’t both trapped in our stupid, judging cities. Feature image credit: Vocal.media
20 year old queer poet and journalist 😎
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