The Love that Never Was

I am watching, surreptitiously. Who are you, wearing the wilted leaves? The Shamrock captures me first, as your eyes reflect the green clovers and sparkle as if in sync. With what? Diamonds? No, too rich. Crystals perhaps, etched into the three-lobed leaves, as you are now into my heart. Calmed by your eyes, reflecting the innocence and freshness of an Irish landscape.  Us laying, beautified languor, lips uniting with a kiss – our first. Then you leave – I am bereft. Your brooch falls, doors beep, me on the platform, holding the only bit of you I have. Kilburn is not my home. Sadness takes hold that this is not our home. I search left and right, ready to race after you with the lucky Shamrock, yet, where are you? Escalator crammed, you nearing the top. I think of calling – my love, wait, wait for me – but that would be crazy. I scramble up the left, crash through people selfishly blocking the path to our happiness. I am too far behind: wait, I shout, your brooch, almost screaming. This is the story we will tell our children, how we began: daddy chasing a woman he had never met, his unbelievable luck, inconceivable to meet the one this way. Kilburn will now be our home, this world our world, this brooch a symbol of our luck. I leap over the barrier, believing you are waiting outside, that you had dropped it on purpose because you know, you know, through those glances that I love you. We are about to start a life as one. You are not there. Lost forever. I stand listlessly with our brooch, its luck now spent.

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