Dear over the road by Marie Lightman

Have you noticed me yet?
I move in to your steps as they caress
the pavement that you tread
on the way to the 45 bus.

Have you found what I left
in your brown leather bag,
something which wasn’t
there before, which if you
understand it belongs there now?

Have you closed your blinds?
Your form makes shadow puppets
for me as I watch your bed routine
tracing your outline with my finger on my knee.

Have you smelt me when I sit
behind on the bus wearing
eau de cologne, cooling to the skin,
distinct covering the musk that
is as close as your neck.

Have you remembered me yet?
I sat next to you once the driver
was new, a novices ride,
kept getting thrown to each other,
that’s when I knew as my leg touched your thigh.

I got off just behind, with enough distance to follow
you to your door and see you enter your flat
pulling your blind fully up you stretched in to the sunlight
standing there as a statue art nouveau,
staring directly at me.

Have you found it yet?