the name I’m calling in the night
is the ghost of yours.
an apparition
wraith-like, transparent
against my lips.
whispered in the witching hour
alone in the dark,
to summon something
or you.

floor to ceiling windows
stacked two upon two
capillaries bursting with office work.

neon signs and patina streaked doors
opening up valves at lunch times
Pret A Manger bloodletting.

final call at The Angel
heralding the end of the work week
teams of cleaners flush the system
to restart for the following Monday.

calling a lost lover
to begin to head on over
this bedroom was only a boarding gate
and this bed your layover.

while scurrying in the underground
he walked like the caves connecting
the city was his birthright
like the current in the earth grounded him
the roaring trains
his adoring subjects

what a moment
brushing past a subterranean prince
glancing at granite jaw
his knowing smile
hands that could have carved a space
out of me.

i turned away as
to see the darkness of the tunnels
peering back at you on the platform
taunting you to jump
was not a commitment i could make.