The Eye-Contact-at-the-Train-Station Fantasy

I want to be one of the twain
to overwhelm the train
station,

the place
maybe chilled enough to coax goosebumps from me,
my face feverish
with a gorgeous wanting heat
all the same;

my eyes
(who have been starving for your face
and are haggard,
emaciated twins)
maybe
pouring more than the usual
harrowed hazel, joyous
now that their sustenance has arrived
on the 6 PM train,

but they just need to find it -
to pinpoint the correct irises
in this haystack of people;

and
maybe now
the heart pounds on the roof with a broom
shouting for the eyes to keep quiet, don't they know what time it is,
don't they have any common sense,
but they have plenty
and they know it is 6 PM and so they feel a warm panic
pooling somewhere far down,
a sense of reality
about to touch the blood like
a white-tipped fire poker primed to prod
young, unmarked skin:

all the nerves get their endorphins  
ready like addicts filling up syringes
with shaking, certain hands,
and all the cells
who can feel the hot breath of the deadly iron
buzz with a freezing, cataclysmic fear,
and the poker
(a dangerously potent sight which
could be ingested in no dose
except the classic all-at-once)
finally presses itself hard
into the helpless epithelium.

The brain and
sensibility would melt
pitifully fast.
Steam
would have to escape somewhere,
so it'd
drag a ragged pronunciation of your name
through the throat
and to your ears,
and your facial expression goes home
at the sight of me:

our eyes lock
and for a second
the only thing that matters
is making contact
so we shove past any and all people
dutifully, then slip
into the heaven that does exist
beautifully,
inevitably,
finally,
fucking
finally,

you're here
and now
my skin is again
the satin fire it was meant to be.