Brief Encounter

Brief Encounter

The whistle sighed and the carriage rattled,
a damp, languid steam that lingers in the air – no hurry,
just the tentative breath of London at night.
Two strangers lean over a worn wooden rail,
their laughter flickering like a candle in the gaping corridor of the tube,
and bare shoulders alike a touchless breeze.

On a platform, the rain paints a thin orange tape on the concrete,
a cue from the film that tells stories in subtle pauses –
A sweet glint of umbrella-crowned eyes, the click of a pocket watch,
and the memory that we were gone again in a blink,
leaving only the faint echo of “Good morning, sir,”
soft as the hiss of clumsy steam and a gentle promise.

There is a scene of a café where the smell of coffee, sweets, and a girl’s lipstick
mixes with a pollyanna smile that is an honest British tea‑time affair –
the taste of mint leaves on tongue, a quick bite of bacon, nothing more.
We sit in the new moment, which will only turn out to be a bruise
against the rhythm that finishes early, a drama that ends at the closing bell,
yet our faces, in that brief instant, leave an indelible pattern of the picture.

When we part, the wheels clatter, the train departs, the city hums,
the hum of a server, an organised clink of a coffee cup.
Life sprints past; a bubble of felt and silk,
and we return to our ordinary destinations, our own rhythms at hand.
But that fleeting moment stays, a secret tucked between the seconds,
a whisper of range‑finding shot that lands in the heart, “I saw you,” and then we move on.