The 8.45am to York

There is not enough time to think
how we will miss each other,
if we will miss each other.

We have rushed up, early Sunday
hopping between bus replacements,
rail diversions. At Waterloo station a woman
ranting at a yawning guard;
she does not have a ticket and is late
for the Eurostar. The Guard does not care.
She should have arrived earlier,
we repeat like a mantra, pleased
with our wisdom, always finding other
people's problems to worry about,
to stop us worrying about our own.
And the French tourist who spits
at the ticket men in Kings Cross.
'You are all miserable piss!'
He shouldn't have come at all.

Not enough time for that cup of coffee
we promised was our reward. We
never have time, do we? Always cursed
with late running trains - little kicks
of bad luck. But we have made it
just in time, just in time, to hold hands,
plan our next meeting, kiss,
look into each other's faces
for proof that we are both loved deeply.
I see excitement in your face, then
your eyes begin to bulge. The moment
comes quickly. I hold your head and
try to suck up your soul, fill myself
with the love you say is there. The train
whistle blows. Tears on your frightened face

You leap on. I wait and wave, and walk
away full of my own tears, surprised
I am crying. Glad I am crying.
I love you.