He She
She's happy –
Laughing.
He's watching –
Quiet.
Her smiling eyes squint.
Deep gusts of air shoot in, then out
As her nostrils flare and close.
His brows converge
Cramming skin above the ridge of his nose.
He strokes his chin in disbelief.
Her phone must have
A good sense of humour.
Her left hand grips tightly
and her manly fingers curl over its rectangular edges.
His phone is in his
Pocket. Waiting to ring (as a phone should).
His hands sit on his lap
And his fingers claw into his thighs.
She's sitting alone
At a round table in a cafe.
Rain drops stampede against high-tech glass
As clouds drown the sun
And twilight spills over the sky's edges.
He's sitting alone
At a round table (same cafe she's in).
Angry thoughts rain against her high-tech appendages.
'I should glass him,' he thinks
Of drowning her in her own blood.
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