It's three in the morning.

Mon Alisa

She stood in front of a cultural monument.
Smiling, knowing how good those old,
riveting soul's struggles would look
next to her smile.

But Miss,
May I ask
what were you fixating on during the shooting?

The spotlight above shades your ebony straight,
into a stray's rosettes.

Between lips plumped by the latest Rouge Allure.
The angle of the seam dissected through assumptions,
and again.
And again and again and again each day.
Generations would beg the question,
'If that's a smile?'
Most would debate,
And the problems followed by both answers.

But I'm more intrigued by,
What's above the blotted-out lower lashes.
What were they staring at?
So dozily uninterested but
Furiously condescending as well.

What were you searching for?
I see no reflections in them,
No mirroring images from the other side.
Emotionless, and stale.

As I sit here,
Thinking of better ways to destroy myself.
With a photograph under my wallet.

Some day,
Somewhere.
Some small studios without a dishwasher,
Stuck between the third and fifth floor.

Someone,
Same date.
Few afternoon's bellowing wind,
Bygone towers and flags and
rivers of autumn leaves.

Gallant boys,
Arms open to a pastel sky.
Bewildered in their youth.

Short change woman
Hooks under short skirts,
Fishing back theirs.