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.


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