Woman with the Chestnut Hair

Dear woman with the chestnut hair.

Your tights without rips and tears, your neat hooded black-felt peacoat cinching your waist were enough. Enough, to draw my attention. To admire you.

Your hair, done to perfection, looking as though you woke up with that femininely shaped mane. Walking with All-Stars, because you are one, to the building we work inside, knowing that you’ll change into a pair of professional heels that will make your feet ache to be back inside your Taylors by the end of the day.

You let out a sound, a coo, at a crossing light as you wait for the red hand to turn into a white walker. I don’t want to get ahead of you, I want to savour this moment of admiration, and push away thoughts of comparison. In this moment you’ve taught me that others may appreciate my walk as I do yours.

I don’t want to know your name, nor your story, because I know you have one that has brought you here. I only want to accept at this moment you don’t know someone thinks you’re beautiful.

Just as you are.