She loves the wine a little too much,

holding glasses half whatever too close to her already short of breath chest,
and in her head she mimes the tambourine as it's the only silent instrument she can play convincingly with real, Keith Richards and his fingers, passion
that can so easily slip into a self-destructive pattern of fingertips and match heads at the foot of fuses leading along to a girl who might never wake up unless she gets three hundred likes an hour on a photo she took two years ago in a place she doesn't remember that well,
and you'll see her in broad eleven light before some lecture or wherever
and it'll look like her eyes have been skipping shots over the backs of weekdays hoping to sleep off her hangover before the week starts back up again,
her lashes matted like a breakfast fruit bowl, more debauchery and sugar on top of those please moments of nowhere despair
and in her head,
overseen by her Bambi heart,
drip, drip, drop
little April showersplays
behind,
all the time,

and the UPS man has just delivered a cat
to the door, a Shadowfax male treading gently around the floor
looking for catnip and romance, and maybe the girl with the wild wine obsession.