Elegantly situated on the charcoal covered curb, she is forgetting the way that cloudy smiles used to make her heart race.
She's not black and blue anymore, though she's spending more time than ever looking for the perfect alley and capturing her reality in paranormal notation.
She's walking on the rain covered asphalt and listening as her steps make a symphony of the silence.
Everlasting and omnipotent, she cannot fathom death because she is not alive.
Fortunately, alive is lucky enough to be her.
She speaks to inform.
She moves to remember.
The shadowy audience makes parenthetical remarks on the content of her stained glass mind and licks their lips salaciously at the way her superiority melts from her harmonies.
In the farthest corner, a voice remarks, soft enough so that only the stars can hear, "I'll write you a poem so beautiful that you'll cry tears of ecstasy and fall in love with the ambrosia coating your fingertips."
It's impossible to comprehend the way that her little talks translate from the night sky to the daylight, but the shadow in the corner is holding her breath and waiting.