crack on the sidewalk, slow down, missing rhinestones on the cover.

cheap purse, designer heels, don’t let them notice the empty holes

left by encrusted jewels. black velvet hugs a

wrinkled grocery list -raspberries and milk- with scribbles on the

margin, first-line light then grows firmer with sureness, hasty notes

don’t want to be erased.

she writes prayers on paper, yellowed and thin. a piano plays on the

street, folded hymns sit next to an empty wallet. she’s never believed

in god before, but sometimes religion is inevitable, and

where is her maroon lipstick? The chain is missing a link, cracked

metallic paint, she unpacks her suitcases

alone and buys charms from stalls for herself or maybe to

show that she can. she hides from unread texts under street lamps,

fallen rhinestones line the curb.

I think she longs for Paris.