Words Left Hanging

In passing, I said it—"Your scarf is divine,"

a fleeting moment, lost in the city’s grind.

Their eyes caught my own, in a split-second glance,

but did they hear me over the street’s harsh dance?

Now I replay it, awkward and bare,

a question hangs thick in the chilly air.

Did I break through the noise, or fade in the gray,

that moment drifts back, as I think of my say.