Kings Cross

Through the dirty square window. I see you.
As it’s pulling in. Your face. Ghostly, translucent, blurred.
The same as every mid-day Rush hour
At Kings Cross. But still, I’m un-prepared.
The harsh screech of the stop
Drowns out, the scream of my heart
As you step off. Vertical lines and a tight knotted tie
Is what you are.
I can only dream of seeing you
In pants. Bed-head. Morning breath.
As you roll over, push my hair from my face and kiss me.
Before getting ready for work.
But for now, this is enough.
Straight lines. Suitcase. Cologne.
I look hopeful as you walk towards me.
Fresh chip-portion wrapped bouquet of lilies in your stern grip.
Ring on your finger glimmers. I long for its twin.
But you pass me.
And once again, I pretend, you’re not the one I’m waiting for.