she heralds a thought like a dove in her throat caught, spun, stabbed a strung-out junkie with feather earrings oh-so indie and it hurts her, too as she remembers that moment when she just let go

she doesn't know what to say next starting her games with a catcall and sudden smoke the acerbic gray is cleverer than it appears just like the girl it obscures

she owns the anteroom lives with her legs propped up, easy,
on the black and white vinyl of a dashboard.
they call her an arctic sun and it's because of the freezer burn where her jugular is supposed to be.

she is folded, saccharine, in powder form complete with straws and mirrors.
and all the sparrow wings are torn apart and falling onto the anemic snow she loved so much listless but dying beautiful.

it happens to everybody.

even ghosts.