There are Sakura

In she walks
at quarter past nine,
late again.

Her red dress
in the right places
Oh so tight.

on her lips
a lit cigarette
and a smile

She orders
a Scotch on the rocks,
nothing more.

from my glass
the tinkle of ice
and Bourbon

Her soft lips
brush against my cheek,
the smell of Chanel

Her soft voice
the music of the spheres
to my ears

falling tears
and a soft low sigh,
an ill omen

as I drink
in the deep twilight
I can see
there are Sakura
falling in the breeze.