Sometimes she whispers,
A soft spoken word that soothes the skin,
A melody that cools third-degree burns,
A tear that drowns a sea of sorrow.
Her melodrama is contagious, infectious, and mesmerizing.

She sits at the red diner, twiddling her thumbs,
And you notice her downtrodden eyes.

You grab a sharpie and write on her hand,
"Loneliness is not a function of solitude,
And you'll never have to be alone."
She smiles as she interlocks her arm with yours.
And the result is pure ecstasy.