rose, buckle, whistling, said

i see his walk, his smile, the freckle below his nose - on the face of every stranger. sometimes i smell him in a cinema; only to turn and find another man, a different set of hands, a softer chuckle. i wonder how many people see me as me or for how many i'm just a blur. a reminder of her.

i remember the first day we met, a stranger whistling nearby, a meeting of eyes, a smile. that day i had been sad. troubled. and he had been there. we had laughed into the early hours of the morning. kissed by an old factory fence.

i remember the last day we kissed. the airport, my hand on the buckle of his bag. his arms by his side. an unfamiliar silence.

in my office across the sea, i receive a single red rose. i think of all the things i should have said. my boss whistles. i think of all the things i'll say.