The girl hanging as a mural
wears a sour face.
her skin is the color of stars
and her hair is the flames in oceans.
If I try to be at peace with my thoughts
she transforms into a white smoke
living excessively in my liver.
healing the wrinkles of loneliness
stretching my face to find sleep in a market.
on days when the rain falls,
she would stretch her hands and collect them
like she does my tears from memory.
in the good book, the angels said I found her
the one who would draw me from the well
and add me to her plate of incense.