Monday, March 18, 2013

Her Corner

There she stands
at a street
In fish-net stockings
a miniskirt
and a dirty white tank
showing off
months of grime.
Her fingers
hold a smoke,
though it
doesn't get to her
dry lips.
When I pass by,
her lips form
into a teasing,
and what she hopes to be
a flirty smirk.
But it doesn't reach her eyes,
her eyes
tell a different story.
Heavy and dull
they tell her story
because everyone's got one.
There are circles under them,
dark purple,
they speak of long
and sleepless nights.
Her hair fall
and her body thin,
her clothes
barely holding up on her
The street is
but I watch her.
Now that no one's here,
she throws away
her smoke
and her shoulders
Now that the street
is empty,
I watch
two tears fall
on her dirty tank,
soaking the cloth.
Someone comes up
and she stands
no sing of tears
except of the two dots
on her dirty
Slowly, she walks with him,
back straight
into the light of the
But her eyes
lose their light
and I watch her
until she disappears
around another corner.

No comments:

Post a Comment