To the City Girl I Knew in a Monitor by Gareth Culshaw

I know you are there lost in the thickness of brick

and glass. Bees pop out words I hear from your tongue,

then fly them away to the city you live.

Your footsteps walk my spine, arch me into old age.

I'll be dead before you’re old. I know your smile opens

up the sky for me to see the sun.

At night as I walk tree canopies, each branch

is your eyelash. I try to be as tall as the clouds, jump

on one and float to your door.

Sometimes when I slow a day on the rails, I watch

for you at each station. Lost to the smile frozen

on screen, my ears make up your accent, hear

you click on the light switches of my home.

We saw each other once, two butterflies flapping away,

short of air, short of love. But we never bumped

into one another to see who woke first.

I wait though, caught in your trap.

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Gareth lives in Wales. He has two collections by FutureCycle called The Miner & A Bard's View. He is a current student at Manchester Met.