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
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?