Sitting in the bus beside you

Sitting in the bus beside you
I wondered what the person
sitting behind us would think:

there we were in similar white tops
that left our shoulders and backs bare;
on our napes hung two identical black bows
of the leather thongs of our necklaces;
down each of our backs hung the long
black ponytails of our hair -

do you think whoever saw the two of us
would think we were sisters or cousins?

Or, I added slyly, mother-and-daughter?

Oh you laughed.
I leaned forward and rested my elbows on
the handrail of the seat in front of us,
half-turned just to watch you laugh.

Do you think so?

You laughed in reply.
You laughed, reached out and traced
a lazy finger down my spine,
let it get caught on my back of my halter-neck,
tugged down playfully;
then you pulled the back of my blouse
   back up in place.

Then you smirked.

What do you think?

I laughed.

How could I have been so silly to think we
would even look alike, despite our attire?

Your strong face, strong jaws,
sharply arresting features;
my soft round bland one.
Your hair is all lively with when-she-was-bad-
she-was-horrid little girl curls;
mine’s a frizzy limp fly whisk.
Your bared shoulders rubbing against mine
are milk chocolate to my white chocolate.

But - somehow, in one way or another -
we match, fit into each other’s skin,
perfectly.

The way the trail of inky black stars
down your back leads to, and stops at,
exactly where my feathery fern unfurls.