She

She walked like tomorrow was on the tip of her tongue. Elegant and tumultuous, if people like her were rain, she would've been a hurricane. She smelled like New Orleans and laughed like a May-Day parade. Monetarily, she was worthless; physically, she was priceless; chronologically, she was timeless; but for all intents and purposes, she did not exist.
Leather on denim on scarred skin on empty, her voice was an octave higher than her stature made you presume. She was overly stimulated and ultimately desired.
Lucifer couldn't look at her whiteness, as righteous as she liked to make it seem. Salivating at the thought of inner turmoil and disgusted wonder, she appreciated the beauties of silence and the uncomfortable truths of her living a lie. In the midst of Mardi Gras, with the sounds of a year of sin melting in the sickly sweet air, she would walk in her mans' shoes and smoke out of her teeth until her throat closed up. She would find limitless ecstasy in the starry night for a minute. She'd breathe again, then, and continue to die.
A long way from home, she caused wonder about the weather and whether she still couldn't stand the light.