Hindsight

Alice Watkinson

We’re still holding hands.
The ceiling calls our stop.
He was in love once too.
with silver in his eyes.
opposite us that stared
dad’s jacket or the man
that might’ve been my
almost smelt of rain but
me to my seat, which
and your honey bound
couldn’t, your hands
I wanted to move but I
and warm as blood.
It was sticky and sour
inching down your face.
your eyes was melting,
and the honey in
fingernails were dirty,
and I recoiled. Your
Your hair brushed my chin
We held hands on the train.