I saw you from the bus. You mouthed something - could have been anything. It looked like three words, but I pretended it was four, five maybe. Even two. I pretended I couldn’t see through the years of unwashed dirt, clumsy finger marks and breath smeared across the glass. I watched instead the city kick dirty newspapers around your feet, stared at the neon kebab sign haloed behind you in flickering reds, at the tarts and thugs cackling through crude foreplay all around you. Anything but at your lips. I half-pretended the glow hurt my eyes. The light changed to amber faster than anyone noticed, and I was away before I could even think about looking back. All that history blurred past faster than I could blink a snapshot of a single thing - the litter, the light, the shuffle of high heels and boots in a vulgar waltz about your humbly polished shoes, or your face as you watched me let me myself go without a word or a second glimpse.