Contemplation on foreign transit
My face burns red
Fiery, flustered, forgoing.
Nostrils condense, eyes moisten.
“This is Bat Country”
her coy smile appeared to howl at me
as I was lost in the chaos.
the locks of her dyed red hair were
mangled, twisted tree roots
—fox-coated tresses.
unconventional elegance emerged
from her enticing eyes and
crooked grin.
She sat down next to me.
Her torn fishnets were a
frayed black gossamer
sprawling across her pallid legs.
I was too intimidated to speak to her
and the imaginary tension between us
failed to cease.
The train halted.
At the jolt,
she glanced up at me
wild and doe-eyed.
As she rose up, she blew
me a smoke-ring kiss and
evaporated into a veil
of ash.
I remain breathless. Still.