That Was Your Bus, Frank

I saw him at the station. While everybody else rushed around - between buses, checking timetables, checking their impatient watches - he simply waited. Still, calm, exuding patience. I was surprised to see such poise in someone so young - in high school still, by the uniform he wore. His bag was startlingly red on such a grey afternoon - red as virgin's blood? asked the poet-voice in my mind, red as hell's flaming waters?
He wore white shoes - white as sun-bleached skulls? - and a blue shirt - blue as the unpolluted sky! - and grey trousers - grey like winter rain and old men's whiskers,the poet suggested, grey like the falling ashes of a funeral pyre.
He hadn't looked my way yet so his eyes remained as mysterious as the untold secrets of the earth, as the epiphanies of angels. I imagined they would be deep, like the ocean's unfathomable depths.
I listened with amusement to the poet's ramblings, only half aware that they were of course my own. It was amazing, in a way, the amount of beauty that could be found in one young man. It wasn't that his looks were so extraordinary, but just the way that the colour and the light played on his stillness and - he moved suddenly, noticing me looking at him, and strode over.
"Hi," he said, flashing me a smile that caught the light and sparkled like a mouthful of stars. I could not think of a single thing to say.
"You're a symphony!" I blurted out, because the poet was never lost for words. My cheeks flushed immediately; he laughed.
"Do you have the time?"