The Midnight Meeting

Depression crept in, soft and thick,
So I wandered out, restless, sick.
Down the road to my bench, my quiet place,
But she was there—smoke curling, framed in grace.

Her skin was night itself, deep and bold,
A beauty untouched, untold, uncontrolled.
Her cigarette glowed like a stolen star,
And her presence felt like she'd traveled far.

She didn’t flinch; she simply stared,
And asked, “Do cats have souls? Or are they spared?”
Her voice was low, like the hum of trees,
A melody of riddles carried on the breeze.

“Do the trees grieve when their leaves are gone?
Does the earth cry out when we tread upon
Its skin?” She exhaled, her words like smoke,
Her questions struck deep, more than she spoke.

She shifted, loose jeans barely held her frame,
A quiet architecture without shame.
She spoke of lovers, of hearts she had claimed,
And the ones who left hers tattered, unnamed.

Her laugh was sharp, yet soft and wise,
Like a wound that heals but never lies.
And then she asked, like it was owed,
“Read me your poetry—the saddest you’ve told.”

I stumbled, but she wouldn’t let go,
So I spilled every line, let the sorrow flow.
Her silence cut deeper than my verses could,
But in her eyes, I knew she understood.

When I finished, she smiled, and it burned,
A quiet, knowing flame that turned
My sadness into something bare,
A burden lighter for her to share.

We sat in that night, thick and still,
Her stories lingered, her voice a chill.
When she rose and walked away unseen,
I wondered if it was real, or just a dream.

But the questions she left, they still remain,
Like a tattoo etched under my pain.
Do the trees mourn? Do cats have souls?
And how do we carry what makes us whole?