Innocents

Sometimes, when we rode at the top of the bus,

our world consisted entirely of us.

We drew hearts in steamed and grubby glass,

passed secret notes in Miss Bickerstaff’s class.

My cheeks grew red at your stolen kiss,

I treasure that memory of innocent bliss.

I carved your name on my pencil case,

and still, even now, I remember your face.

If I could live through it all again,

I’d spend much more time, just being 10.