THE FIFTH OF OUR GOODBYES

Somewhere
close to equidistant
between your place
and my train,
fairly near the police station,
we stop
and say the fifth of our goodbyes.

Parting is such sweet sorrow
for young lovers like us
but the closer we get to yours
the less we can be us, as
increasing eyes will stare.
We must take care
not to be noticed.

So, before the cops,
we kiss, embracing,
locked together.

We should be looking around.
It’s not safe to be seen,
it’s said,
not so close to home
but we pay little mind
even
when the officers exit the stationhouse
en masse
in pursuit of some dangerous crime.

“We should go,” you whisper
over the sirens
but I beg
that we stay a little longer
and we remain
together,
entranced under police light.