She has no name.
Coffee skin, big curly hair and a face beautifully chiselled but culturally ambiguous.
The eyes though, tell the story.
Is it longing? Sadness? Wistful loss?
They shine. A suggestion of tears but with no guarantee, they look over the twilght street, lit only by moon.
Red liquid untouched, did she think it would help?
One candle threatens to extinguish, she should care but just lets it flicker. If it dies it dies.
She wonders who she is, what she is.
She once knew.