a man awaits for the next train. the air is dry and the night is old.
he sits on a bench, sighs and folds his hands under his jacket.
the sound of station is loud, the low buzz of voices making a familiar racket.
he is tired, his hands feel weary and his fingers are cold.
there is a woman just sitting across from him. she took off her plaid red scarf and began to fold it.
her skin was as frail as his. her old hair as white as snow and under the yellow lights her eyes were warmly lit.
he smiled, though she did not see him. he wasn't one to make a move so bold.
he closed his eyes as it began to spit, letting the light rain that was falling hit.
he decided not to disturb, she looked ever so peaceful wrapped in her winter knit.
a the man gazed upon his wife, watching the white snow collect on her parasol.
she looked over so beautiful under the headlights of the train, so warmly lit.