Poem By YURI DURAAN
She waits on the steps of his building,
sitting daintily, so not to crease her dress
checking and rechecking her appearance
in a silver-plated compact mirror
(a present from him, bought on one of many trips)
She avoids eye contact with passers-by
not wanting them to think that she's 'that sort of woman'
'I'll be down in a minute' he said to her - some time ago
She looks up at his window seven stories up where the light
is still blazing.... a beacon against the sky,
the sky casting a shadow over her eager hopes and
Finally, she takes her leave,
uncertain, with little steps
then looking down....
still avoiding eye-contact with passers-by
feeling exactly like 'that sort of woman'.