The rain slaps the windows.

She is so sad.
There are tears, sad tears, but quiet,
barely visible.

The drink is brought
to her by a young waitress
who wears white trainers.
What to say

to someone with wet cheeks?
Steam rises from her cup of chocolate
in grey punctuation.

Measure minutes by sniffles.
A man shoots an umbrella open,
the rain sounds like a shaken box of nails.

Her evening, upturned, quiet tears,
so sad. O girl, let me dip
a slippery finger
in the chalk moon,

mark your table with a white star.
Her tears are the story,
as the weather, so fluid.