Perfectly matched pairs

It’s been one year and seventeen days since we met.
My bus had been late,
salad dressing had exploded in my bag.
You walked past and chuckled,
making a comment about faulty tupperware.
I knew you were the one.

I know when you walk near my desk,
winter pine car air freshener, coffee and spearmint.
Your favourite is espresso,
that’s the one you always get from the machine.
You have cheese sandwiches every day for lunch
but you don’t like the crusts.
You parcel them in clingfilm
and throw them across the office into the bin.
You never miss, of course you don’t.
You always wear black socks
but they’re all slightly different shades.
I don’t think you notice.

When we live together
I’ll make your cheese sandwiches every evening,
keep them in the fridge overnight.
I’ll fold your socks into perfectly matched pairs,
I’ll buy you ones with different coloured patches on the toes
so you’ll never mix them up again.
I know you’d like that.

I saw that other girl through your window last night,
from the bus stop across the street.
The number 36 doesn’t go to my house,
but the stop’s position is perfect.
I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,
she seduced you with the little red dress,
the black stiletto heels.
You’re too good a man,
so eager to please,
you couldn’t say no.

I know you get my letters,
I heard you tell someone in the office.
Why don’t you reply?
You know it is me,
I spray the paper with my perfume,
I press my lipsticked lips on the seal.
Who else could ‘The one’ be?

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