Catching words she beads them for a necklace,

selling phrases at a market.

Holds herself and wonders,

when he stumbles in,

softly,

crooning words to songs they both don't know,

why she couldn't be a little shorter,

a little fairer.

Watching as he,

softly,

browses empty stalls,

reaching once but never grasping,

fingers tracing exotic outlines,

leaving nothing but a smudge of oils,

in dust,

which he,

(softly)

blows away.