Her name was Katrina. She liked the word cream, and riding bikes, and red and white. She cut her hair short, sat on white windowsills, blinded only by heart. With lemon juice and water, she's keeping a diary invisibly, hiding herself safe from harm. And the night will keep her warm.

Talented and bright, lonely and uptight, she'd love to play at the airport on a baggage carousel, or tape notes at a construction site. But only with you, hush, it's a secret. (Yours, sincerely yours) She's that faulty string of christmas lights, and with love and hope she lets everyone in, blinking on and off again. And so she'll take some sugar and a swiss army knife, and trace your sillhouette in spilled outlines. She's relying far too heavily on happiness and irony. She's got this desire, it falters and falls down, it calls out at night to wonder when...wonderful.

She'll find ways to measure and cross this distance. Even if she's talking from the past, from four timezones away. Pray she remains happy, and so hopelessly hopeful. She's found her cure for being sure, and, sure as anything, will smile for her reckoning.

She's following the yellow lines, on the road. They're going to lead her home.