She's sitting next to me, she's relaxed at ease.
She's reading a book I can't see the cover, even though she covers me with interest.
She's paying attention to the reading but also to something else.
She fights within not to look, and she does it.
She's mysterious, or she tries hard to be.
I know nothing about her, but I'd like to.
I cannot catch a sign from her, is there any?
Her lips are simple, the way I like, gentle and tender, warm, I Can imagine the pleasure they can pass, when touched.
I imagine how much they have.
Her face, one simple work of art, that I can only stare at, wish I was blind for a second, so I could have excuse to touch.
We arrive, an intermediate destination till we meet again.
She leaves and as she does, a soft fragrance fills the air, it's not perfume it's mystery, sweet and dark mystery... this one, that must be solved... another day, another time, still on the 7:30 train.
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