London

I watched London leave through the dirty coach windows and all I could think about was her. A restaurant we loved yet failed to return to since. The cravings for nicotine, tea and sex and those mornings of love seem like some other time. Somebody Else's other time.

A few seats forward the shadow of a man lurches violently with a cough that is a pleasant reminder I should smoke less and less reds. It would irritate me but I felt sorry for him and wished I had some water. A bad cough is a terrible thing. Irritation came from the Saville Row suited kid or hormone deficient man sat to my immediate right. Tapping into his phone with an annoying repetition of a man who has to be doing something. Music too loud floating into the fan-assisted silence, I even heard our song but that is becoming standard these days. Almost like a ticking time bomb. A Japanese couple sleep on each other, curled up in the way only couples can on a coach and it made me realise that we had never had a chance to leave this filthy city, we had never made time. Bubble love. London is.
It seems a shame one city, one moment in time defined us. Sad.

London speeds by and sooner at this time of night rather than later it is Hillingdon - a pit stop, a a benchmark, a landmark to a better place. Soon it is the motorway and soon it is home. Though I cant help but feel, cliched as it is, that home is where the heart is. A basement flat in Peckham of all places, somebody elses home as it always has been.

I miss acting on a heartbeat.
I do miss being me.
I think one day I may find myself again but until then i shall remain Mr Nobody.