She whispers to herself: unwind,

forget, tenderly dip into 

delight that may find itself in

little fluffy clouds of the mind.

Smiles have arranged into

              a chaotic order 

                            on her face.

Gaze has departed into 

             a borrowed

                          foreign land.

Fragment of a memory 

           is an icicle thawing 

                         on her palm.

Air is unsweetened with 

         a smoke of tires

                        and fires of her chaos.

Fantasies are bustling into the 

        murky exhaust 

                       of so desperately desired  

                                   tranquility.

She will be sitting in a Parisian café in January,

clenching her jaw trying to look relaxed in her 

new beige wool cable sweater and a plaid skirt,

pretending blissful depth of hot coffee never ends.

Today, her shiny machine of time breaks. 

Hurry, secure your spot with her on a blanket of snow. 

Tell about an inflatable giraffe balloon in the skies.

It will float away out of sight before you finish your sentence

         to the magnificent

                     unobstructed real-estate

                                    of her sweltering mind.