The couple are seated, quietly speaking on a bench.
They talk of days, of moments, of ups, of downs.
Nothing they do disturbs the hustle beyond them, until someone
claims that it does.
They’re sitting too close, if they want to be intimate, find somewhere else.
They remain seated, talking. Just talking.
Those things shouldn’t be spoken about in public. Save them for later.
They hesitate, then continue talking.
Is there something wrong with you? It’s crazy you would be so open. What if a child hears you? Do you really want that?
Tainting them? Tainting me? Tainting us?
Voices that were silent now crash over the couple’s moment,
blocking their words, twisting them, unhinging them.
The couple takes out a tube of bubbles trying to seal themselves away.
It works, but the clock is already counting down until it pops.
They hope no-one appears with a pin.
Treeshallow Musings 