The watcher

I sat frozen,

skin prickling—too aware

of the man two rows behind,

eyes fixed, slicing the air between us.

His gaze was a low drum,

persistent as the engine's hum,

not quite a stare but enough

to make every nerve hum louder.

I flipped my eyes toward the window,

a faint reflection caught me,

but his eyes were still digging,

carving dents into the back of my neck.

A crowd moves, faces blur,

but his weight holds me, pressed and thin,

a ghost hand on a cracked spine,

squeezing tight,

when all I want is to vanish.