In a small restaurant...

To The Lady on the Train,

I could tell you that you are beautiful,

            But that would fall short of the truth. 

I could tell you about the shades of brown in your eyes as you sat across a small table by a westering sun lit window. 

I could tell you about your curls; wild, barely contained, over your ears and how they fell like a waterfall on the back of your neck to your shoulders.

 

I could tell you about the lines of your throat from your small ears to your collar bone and the slope of your sharp shoulders.

 

I could tell you about the flow of your wide necked blouse and the vulnerability and strength it reveals.

 

I could tell you about how your tanned forearms rested on that small table and the slender taper of your fingers.

 

I could tell you about thinking about the strength of your back and the angles of your shoulder blades and the last time my fingers traced the patterns of freckles.

I could tell you about the narrowness of your waist and the flare of your hips.

I could tell you about the butterflies that you kicked up in my stomach and the way you make me feel taller.

I could tell you about the sound of your voice that the way your hands moved through the air when you tell me the stories that need to be told.

I could tell you that like a magnet swings a compass, my world spins to a new orientation when you are close.

I could tell you these things and the words would utterly fail. 

So I will simply say this:

            You brighten the small restaurant more than any sunshine. You change the room with your own light.

The Man in the Station