Early morning, clear day, I boarded the overground underground.
And so did you.
My breath caught, tunnel vision. 5 months now, can’t help.
Black shirt, white buttons, hands in pockets of black trousers. Black duffel bag, at your white stan smith feet.
Hair, dirty blonde, tendrils wet clean from a shower, pushed back.
Round rim glasses, on your slightly crooked nose. Lips, parted. Eyes blue as fuck.
We were facing each other, standing. You didn’t look my way.
I looked yours.
I began to look small, timid, shy, quiet. Display.
I caught myself. I began to panic; ‘why that, why small? who are you’
I acted spacious, haughty, IDGAF.
You didn’t look my way.
In my mind appeared a vision of your girlfriend. Perfectly formed.
Small, quirky, Fashion. Hang off your arm hang on your words but shoot you down.
Lucy Liu, Lucky Number Slevin. (Where do these things come from?)
The things I’m not, cannot.
Then it struck me, the similarity, to him. That panicked me further.
I turned away, as the train moved, shifted my feet.
I turned back. You gazed, into space. No headphones.
Me, neutral now, just looking, shaken by my insides. My station arrived.
I saw him again, recently, months later. ‘Head in the clouds’.
I saw something different. Things had changed, for me.
I saw artful crafting, utter care. Head firmly right here, look at me.
I briefly imagined a different girlfriend, now.
Blonde, your identical,
stan smith match grand slam twins.
Thousands upon thousands of pounds between you. But nothing really to say, but complaint.
I walked my way, away.