She stays home sipping Argentinian wine at night,
waging a war on everything she does not understand
in the blinding light of everything that happens before the sun sets.
She laughs, reminds herself that a man once said
that the sun also rises.
She loves the way white turns fantastically blue,
but is instead defined by the moments in which the blue suspiciously faded,
or turned to red.
In the moments in between the silences
she thinks of what she'll say next, weighs what's been lost,
pretends she knows the answers to the questions she's sure
you'll never have the courage to ask out loud, or even quietly to yourself.
She adds and subtracts and then draws a mental road map of a conversation
that she and you both know you will never have.
And then there are those moments
when love begins or reclaims or saves,
pulls itself out of the fire, or begs her to believe in it for just one more second
and she has no choice but to believe again.