In six nights
she was nocturnal,
each dawn creasing rougher
behind dilated eyes
until one blankly bright triangle
prism-flected them all.

Through the city's slumbering labyrinth
she trails a red string behind her,
left hand to the dead stone.
Breath would come when it was called
if someone would hold the fraying end.

She hopes not to meet the Minotaur,
but maybe he's lonely, too.
Together, they could study
the shadows of subway-grate vapors,
devouring the outlines
of what should have been theirs.