Sad but true

‘I can only trust myself,’ he repeats.
She says, ‘I’m careful where I place my hand.’
You can’t be too wise or too useful.

He always looks over his shoulder when changing lanes.
She refuses to comply, flexing her tone-deaf muscles.
Avoidance pulled on like pigskin gloves, snug and ordinary.

Suffering oozes from his sockets; indeed
Making eye contact fruitless.
A relief.
Unsanitized fingers twitching
She wipes her hand in her pocket lining
Another threat averted.

Windows wearily draped in muslin.
Stomach mopped clean.
Heart chambers locked,
Checked, locked again.
She trusts only safety.
He trusts no one.

Consider this a weak punch at my recent writer's block by my healed left hook. I offer my take on the Sunday Scribblings prompt, 'trust.'

On my way home, I saw...

Two figures approach an impatient car
that breathed hot exhaust,
motioning for egress.
He stood gray--

Her sari, layers of spice.

Wavy black locks captive
While he bent to kiss her face,
Steely grief slammed the door, airtight.
She remained, watching him leave,
hand over her heart.

The car foreshortened as
She wiped her face of tears.
Her saffron pallu waved, lifted,

took flight
And because I had no place to hide
I saw her no more.