Weaving my way
Through a throng,
I spied emerald eyes
dark and somber
as a July
Thunderstorm,
her day dripped
sadness around
crimson heels
in tiny rivulets
of espresso and cream,
Staining her Burberry
skirt along its seams.
Lifting her hand to
her lips, *******
gingerly at manicured
fingertips.
She watched the
train pull away.


AD