As the worn out winter sky bats her eyelashes,
a girl buries her face in a bouquet.
The florals leap and dance before her, and she places them on the concrete.

The day grows tired and she does too.
Her nose stings with traces of tobacco in the air,
and the roses on her cheeks have shriveled.
She is so tired, so very tired,
but not as tired as the night.

Cotton candy sunsets retreat into the atmosphere,
black trickles into its place,
and with each trace of light that slips away the girl turns her eyes higher towards the sky.

She closes her eyes and the stars appear to greet her,
but she is so very tired, and her heart weighs on her like stone

Perhaps tomorrow, she thought to herself.
Perhaps tomorrow I will enjoy the stars.