BUS RIDE

Sweat dampens our classy wool uniforms,
a pathetic breeze drifts through the windows.
the bus roars down the road, from our parade.
We clutch battered instruments and chatter
the energy high, despite our fatigue.
I lean my head on the window, eyes closed
he sits daringly close so our knees touch,
gently pressing a cool water bottle
against my neck, my cheek, my hands. I sigh.
The cold soothes, but my heart is ablaze.

(blank verse, sort of)