Guessing at precision,

she tumbles eyeliner across the

edges of her vision

and adds a touch of transparency to full-to-bursting lips.

With sharpied converse, she treads along the

cracks of pavements, as if life followed fortune's

plans, and weren't a random reel of

over-saturated images,

interspersed with magic.

Were she a painter, she would draw wonky lines

in an effort at failed order,

drinking blended ice cream and coffee

till all hours of the mornings.

As it is, she does the same, but cannot

claim creation as an excuse, and so

must answer mundane questions

Why do you do this to yourself?

Her nails are painted scarlet, and chipped

in places, where she picked apart the meaning of life

under fluorescent lighting, and smiled as she saw

only chocolate beneath.

It is an opera story, and she a

five foot seven heroine,

called to earth to philosophize and

follow a very intricate map

where the streets have no names.

Should she even begin?