Discursive thoughts occupy her auburn, withdrawn eyes
as she avoids my inquiring stare.
Her crossed arms hide her as a raincoat would
against an incessant rainstorm,
pounding against begrudging insecurity.
Mahogany ripples like rivers. Downstream,
down her back,
an abundance of tangles and silk
that she runs her hands through and through
in response to my approach.
Her shirt clings to her body like a child to a lifesaver
All wrinkles and stretches and flowered lines of coffee stains
Her jeans, sun-worn and aged fabric;
hems, torn and grass-stained from wear, look tight and ill-fitting
just a size too small.
The cigarette, hanging loosely from her nicotine-stained fingertips,
crackles on each drag like her skin
when she scratches days old scabs.
The hearty wheeze in her lungs, her own monster, tempting
just one more.
She finally looks up at me, and softly begs the question,
"Sorry, but could you please stop staring at me?"