One might say that her’s was just another face

One might say that her’s was just another face;
Young for her years, be-glassed and waving
Half-finished sentence eclipsed by the closing door.
Something cried out in me as the train moved on —
The wistfulness in her face,
The eagerness in her manner
brought tears to my eyes,
as her goodbye gesture faded off into the bleakly gray
morning.

One might say that her’s was just another face;
Leaving us and going on to continue her interrupted life.
No relation of mine,
I knew her but a short time (twenty minutes, perhaps?)
But something in my heart 9unnamed pain of understanding)
Bridged for a time the gaps of language and strangeness.
Immediately knowing what she felt,
I was swept with an ache of desolation and dreams,
aching and wistfulness,
Desperately wanting to rectify the injustice,
Giving all I have to erase the guilt of possessing so much.
— So much, in fact, that a cigarette is an amazingly
rare gift; and all I have seemed like such a tremendous waste

One might say her’s was just another face;
Yet when she left, I felt
A tiny breaking inside, a pain of something dying.
As I waved goodbye to just another face
Fading into the gray autumn day.