Straight vertical autumn rain falling,
the bus already at the crossing.
Luckily the driver notices
my frantic waving.

Dripping, panting, I enter,
letting my hood down,
noticing her face
in the very same moment.

Twenty-five years ago
we were lovers
for a brief space of time.

Still that friendly warmth
radiates from our minds,
our memories, as we start talking.

Back then; getting very high
on her couch on the balcony,
from unfulfilled desire,
and euphorizing smoke,
curling up against the darkening august sky.

And once or twice we did go all the way,
climbing the peak of lust
on the dusty floor of my little flat.

Now, on the bus, we are just chit-chatting
about habits and family, dead or alive,
savoring that special feeling
only old lovers who still
like each other may share,
until the vehicle stops
just by her house
and she walks off with the sweetest
smile upon her face.