On the Train to Brisbane - Mel Afoa

I first saw him on the sixteen-carriage train,
on it's way to Brisbane.
Tall, brown locks, eyes golden brown,
holding his backpack and guitar case in a sexy manner.
He walked past my window,
hopped in from my carriage's door,
and with a small smile and sigh,
he sat on the seat next to mine.
I looked away, blushed a little,
looked towards the time, quarter past four in the afternoon.
He asked for my name, I politely replied, asked for his,
and within one minute after meeting him,
I found out he was French, my age and a traveller.
His eyes were glittery, his body was muscular,
his plain t-shirt sticking in the right places.
Within twenty minutes, the train speeding quickly
past the green valleys, the pictures meadows,
I found out about his personality and past,
beautiful both inside and out.
This French boy asked many questions about me,
our conversations growing with emotions.
Five hours into the journey and the acquaintance,
I fell asleep on his shoulder, and he let me snuggle in,
wrapping his blanket around me, his smile the last thing I saw.
One hour later, our conversations grew deeper,
grew more meaningful, and our whole historys made their debut,
and trust somehow flew into the window and wrapped its arms around us.
Brisbane finally showed itself,
Off the train, he helped me with my bags,
and took me to see the city of Brisbane from his eyes.
Surfer's Paradise, we set sail to, lives tangled with the other.
He was humble and sweet, shown when he took me to dinner,
showed me the city lights that were different from his City of Love/Lights,
and with that, his lips yearned for mine, our bodies searching for the other,

this French Boy, this very one, I met him on the train to Brisbane.