A bittersweet cup her scant company
A lone finger lingering gingerly
Her cup, half filled, half empty
Her sights subtly wander
From stranger to faces familiar
Wishing for recognition,
A wink, a smile
A missing warmth.
By her side an unopened tabloid
Hidden masthead inviting passing glances
From strangers, familiar faces
Spying gibberish in meaningless fonts
Recollecting event passed
Of deeds done
Hours, days before
By someone, another stranger
A sigh escapes her lips
A trace, a print fringing the cup’s edge
Luscious red on skin, pinkish smudge on porcelain surface
The shine matching her skin so shy
Hiding beneath a powdered layer
Of tapered thickness
By touches too soft too light
Missing seconds dial ticks away
Invisibly racing past encrusted markers
Oh why does the time rushes?
She silently wonders
Her fingers animating a louder protest
Tap tapping a tuneless crescendo
A bravura performance
Of a solo recital
A sudden silent stillness
A cacophonous wail in the distance
Disturbed, she stood her height
Peering beyond a growing barricade
Of boisterous busy bodies
As beads of sweats
Preludes a growing dread…
Could it be?
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