She invented the cloudy dreaminess in boys eyes and their obvious intentions,
While drinking a golden tea rendered from a sunburst of alien tentacles with a red heart.
He explains he is a budding musician and believes in god so she asks why and says
You can find god in pews, or resounding from the throat of a holy man or
You can find god in the five-lined staff
Where your wings force their way through the skin of your shoulder blades
To glitter or reflect the steely pall of your confessions –
But then sacrilege appears on the patio casting his poison on every frame of her daylight
A blank ghost, with colorless, translucent skin composed of love molecules from her youth.
She suddenly feels she might be compressed to a vanishing dust to be dissipated with the breeze
Becoming only a glint in the saga of conquests
A dead, buried, short story with no premise.
She has forgotten about the young musician and his guitar
And her tea has turned to mud.