Sharon Stockdale

Young eyes reflect a battle weary soul.
They gaze from shadowed sockets, parchment skin
stretched over skeletal visage. He holds
her hand, her gnarled knuckles laced within
his plump brown digits, as she rests her head
upon his shoulder. Standing on the train,
I wonder what afflicts her. Almost dead,
she sits beside him. Trying to sustain
her, tenderly he kisses her white brow.
She reaches up to meet him with her lips.
As the train stops, I exit with the crowd
leaving the car. I’ll not forget that trip.