The cafe buzzed with conversation,
a cacophony of laughter,
clinking coffee cups;
still her shadow was cloaked in the corner
on the other side of the street.

Huddled in dim shades,
she felt the warmth of
her memories slip away;
they did little to dispel the chill
that settled around her soul.

Her worn idleness lay forgotten,
the words blurring into
an incomprehensible mess;
families sharing plates of pastries,
friends divide flavours.

Her gaze drifted to a new red spot
bobbing among many others in her arm,
a stark contrast to the joyous chatter cross the road.
It seemed to mock her,
a symbol of  forbidden celebration.

A reminder of her isolation,
sight of escaped sighs,
barely audible over murky delusions;
Yet, amidst all the solitude,
a flicker of defiance.

In the quiet act of creation,
she found a solace,
a connection,
a way to belong,
even in her red spot solitude.