A couple.

I'm standing on platform 23 again.
This unobtrusively pretty girl - well,
she sort of looks up at him like she's got him.
Sort of looks downwards and then upwards like
she sort of knows she's the most charming to him and
the flowers in his hand, upright, agree.
And he's all leaning against the pole there.

Flowers are one of those things that catch value
from their own brash and brassy mortality.
People say that about about humanity, people I've heard,
but they aren't right about that.

Anyway their hips are touching just and - well,
I sort of look away but the way that they
can't even see anyone else is sort of maybe fascinating
or atrocious or something else lucidly-coloured.
It makes your eyes hurt. You?
You only gave me flowers once or twice.
Maybe you remembered the romantic
boulders and blocks in my head or maybe, you know,
you just didn't think of it and that's
another delicate little excuse I make
for the overestimated you I invented.