Red Dress

Carefree or tormented?

She was dancing outside, in the night. Cigarette in her hand. Decades older. The drizzle of rain didn't stop her from smoking. Red dress moving to an 80s beat. Internally imprinted in my mind. On one hand, she's killing herself. On another, dancing to lift her soul. Smoker non-smoker, I haven't cried for someone that I've never known. It wasn't her red dress. It wasn't her movement. I cried seeing two worlds clash each other that night. Was she carefree or tormented? I don't know, her. Never will know, her. Can't, from an end in of itself. That's, okay. She felt. Surprise, confusion, the heart. My thoughts? Words. Her? An end in of itself.