Petals weaping to the floor
so softy goes his sorrow
among the throng
sinking into silent folds
of rushing strangers
and weary busy waitresses
that trample the petals
as if hearts don't matter.
She would have gathered them
risking crushed fingers and peculiar glances,
and gently place them in her pocket
until home
to save them between book pages,
or the bruised ones for perfume.
She would have noticed him,
he knew
and did once.