she sat on the stoop of the building
her arms cradling his head that hung low into his chest
his eyes pressed hard into the palms of his hand
her posture spoke to me
her every cell begged to perform a transfusion
“transfer the hurt, from him, to me” her face said
as she nuzzled her forehead into the curve between his ear and shoulder
cars passed between them, & me
kicking up the odors of the street
of drunken night life
& sober regrets.
i could feel her desperation from four lanes away
i silently observed them
as my drunken companion pulled me along
but all i wanted was to pause, & watch–
to know their night’s story.
because even in an entirely different country,
hurt easily translates.