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.