She was not the girl you can see at a drink.
She was not the type to braid her hair
only on a strong, light, tail,
with some wires sticking out above the crown,
as a volcanic eruption –
she was not the type to allow herself to let her hair free,
sometimes turning to smile
to the one whose steps follow her close.
She was not the girl who sits on the couch.
Simply, looking from one side,
with that light violently hitting her profile –
you could say how she was chewing, swallowing,
how she leans to see the more details of the street,
how she nears the camera lens,
how she transforms.
She may like bitter chocolate,
because the white was too sweet.
Emma was Emma.