blue hair, a costa rican palm tree inked upon the shoulder and a bus ride to santa elena

Trousers torn, heels high. Eyes dark, eyes meet. One look, no smiles. 

There’s me, long hair. Not shaved, not sane.

Glimpse two, how brave. Mind’s wild, month shut. 

Glimpse three, you’re gone. I’m such, a twat. 

Glimpse four, can’t stop. You’re back, thank god. 

Bus halts, green hills. I yearned, for this.

Rain ceased, cold breeze. You’re first, to leave.

I stay, a bit. Too long, maybe.