The Penniless Bohemian

Lips a steady lilac, she tickles the sugared snow. Her delight crescendoes in the dainty crinkle of her crooked nose.  Her lashes lift their noir hands to embrace the sky’s gift. The garden of stars shining across her melodious featured illuminate the sapphire notes in her azure orbs. Perfection, he thinks, is an impossible abstraction, concocted by carnivorous television corporates and morose artists far from as cosmopolitan as they pretend. But as her tinkling laughter dances over the winter paradise, he thinks he’s found the closest thing.