Small Change

At the bus stop, two strangers stood,

one fumbling, dropped a ticket, as if he could

just let it go.

The other bent down, a quick, almost curt

motion, picked it up, a small exchange.

Their fingers brushed, a momentary, strange

contact, like static, barely there.

No recognition, just a vacant stare.

But I saw it, felt it, a current passed,

a tiny spark that couldn't last.

The air rushed back between them, cold and wide,

a vast expanse where feeling died.

And I thought of skin, the accidental press,

the weight of loneliness, no less.

A dropped ticket, and a hand too quick to meet,

a quiet hunger on a busy street.