Flowery Death

I smiled at him when he first stepped in.
It was an invitation for him to sit next to me.
He smelled nice, like flowers.
It was a nice Friday night to go out.
But he was alone.

As the bus moved,
I worked out a way to start a conversation,
but I couldn't find the right words,
so I stayed silent until we reached the train station,
where we missed the first train,
and had to wait for the second one.

I asked where he was going,
and he replied,
"Just going out for a drink or two,
then, straight back home,"
I nodded. I understood.
But he was alone.

The figure that followed behind him,
from the bus,
It was waiting.

He smelled nice.
He smelled a flowery death.

He was not alone.