In the blue passenger’s train,
they sat side by side
and the honeysuckle danced
through the breeze outside.
But he looked not at the outside world,
nor towards the roadside singer,
instead he turned towards his side, where she sat, reading,
twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
“You’re beautiful!.” He said.
She slapped him hard on the face,
shut the book and walked away.
In the corner of the train, where no one could see,
perhaps a tear or two escaped her eye, and rolled down her rugged, acid burnt cheek.
When in the next stop, he stood up to get down,
with a black stick in his hand, he searched his steps around.