I love you on every tube to Oval station,

and when I blow a kiss through the closed 

glass window of the northern line,

two Italian ladies opposite me smile 

through their masks in knowing,

as if to say, we have loved too, it’s okay,

on the way home I make lots of lists on my phone 

and imagine us in the smoking area of a pub in the middle of the city,

sculling pints of beer, letting the air wonder whether we’ll kiss tonight

or whether the bartender will go home

wishing she knew what it felt like to be with you.

Scared of myself, I run home through the rain, knowing how she feels.