Who is she?
This miraculous girl— who is she?
She is the the butterfly who evades the entomologist’s corkboard and flutters away, unable to be labeled and displayed in a glass case. She cannot be pinned down. Metal pins through her wings simply vanish.
She is the shadow that disappears into the fog, until there is only the faint echo of footsteps on cobblestones.
She is also the very same fog that hides and distorts mysterious figures. She slips away easily, for you cannot capture her. She escapes through the gaps between your fingers, ever evasive.
She is the word that teeters on the tip of your tongue. You know her, but you just cannot seem to say what she is. She is… she is…
She is the shimmering mirage under a desert sky. She promises relief, but you will never reach her. Her illusion of an oasis beckons.
You cannot define her. Every little thing about her that you learn brings you no closer to what, to who she really is.
If you looked up her name in the dictionary, the entry would be blank except for a single question mark.
Who is she? Who is she?