On Evening Train, A Passenger

How can I tell the girl sitting across the seat from me that I love her? I met her an hour ago. We are surrounded by people.

Her leg keeps brushing mine, insistently.

 The rain draws our eye and our conversation, stormy and short, like any good impossible thing. She is older, than me at least, 28 to my 19 days around the sun. Kind, interested, wan.

I would love her, and do. In the small sense. You know.

 I would stand for her, though she would call me a stranger. I would care for her, support her head as she climaxed around my fingers, kiss her as she passed through another explosion. Would she coo as I stroked her breasts? Yip when I caught her nipple in my teeth? I would hold her hand in the Theater. I would push fingers through her auburn hair as she slept against me.

 A name not known, a number unheard, we will drift away forever and a day. Never again, upon her leave, will I think of the love that once beat in the chest of a train passenger. Love unsaid, untested, subtle, yet true. So much for love.