Dear London

Getting over ground trains in you, I can peer into windows , other’s lives, urban towers that over look old tracks. And see.

Christmas trees going up, final touches, step back, touch of hands, blue light from the tv and the x factor final I know I’m going to miss. Always wanted a flat with a balcony-that’s real London living.

I can see where I’m going on your overground, feels a little less like you, watching the streets beneath, buildings rise up. Like New York, or Chicago, places I’ve never been.

This is a push for me, a Saturday alone in your corners. First weekend I’ve not run from you or busied myself to avoid being alone with nothing planned on a saturday night in the city. Thats not London. You are heaving with people, names unknown to me. I breath calmly for fear of people I may know out on a Saturday night seeing me alone. I think up excuses and calm reasoning, never used to worry me, happy alone, happiest alone in your streets. But not on a Saturday. Wonder if this a hangover from younger days, of proper weekends off, that this causes the ominous chance of weekend potential left empty.

Then you bring forth a pleasant surprise; someone I wasn’t expecting to see. That coincidence that at once seems so obvious yet so unexpected in you. That’s what I always wanted, from you, accidents.

A proper London evening not drowned in booze, a beautiful performance watched, new conversation. And I enjoy you again on the way home in my slightly sober superiority.

A man in a Skelton suit, with an unusually large arse, for a man who has taken to wearing a skeleton suit. Cold to the wind, On his mobile phone, no explanation met with an open mouthed take from an elderly woman and a wry smile from her partner.

A young girl, all cocked hat, short skirt, flicked eyes loud on her phone.’oh my god I’m so excited I’ll be in shoreditch, by like 11 say 5, past 10 past’

Of course you will, I think. Of course it’s Shoreditch your heading, eyeing her neat ankle boots. And this thought comes via envy of those younger than me just heading out at 11pm.

Train’s due in 9 minutes, she sits to reapply, reflick her eyes. You can’t waste a moment in London, in you, especially not waiting for a train.

Half held breath sees me looking for possible apparitions or painful accidents. Has me thinking about time over looking. Looking over my shoulder. Old haunts, places travelled, lines walked together, spent together. Places I still have to go through, in transit. Possibilities of breathing the same air, a foot step behind, a carriage in front. Knowing that by conjuring up that accidental apparition, it will not, definitely will not happen. A slight glance to the side, just in case. It will remain , as it is, a fantasy that I’m trying to turn to memory. Those things only happen when you are least expecting it. When you, London are grabbing at my ankles, jolting at my stomach, confuse me in coincidence, in a strangers gait that looks familiar. And it’s never who I think it will be.


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