No one listens.

Her bones had a way of settling inside that made her miss the sunshine.
She tied her dreams to her doubts with her Chuck Taylor laces and threw them to the phone wire.
Sacrifice was easy, breathing was hard.
The "bigger picture" had swallowed the artist whole, and she missed the artist dearly.
And she walked, and she smiled, and her voice left her body but never made it far.
She closed her heavy eyes at night and the stars found her. Loneliness lulled her to sleep, and relief greeted her on the other side. Greener grass, and open windows. Morning always came, and sweet sadness filled her days.
Her feet carried her places her timid heart dared not go.
Left turns and dirty stop signs, lone peak high, and storm clouds.

"I think I touched it once, my finger tips brushed its glory; and for a moment my paper wings were real."

But muddy memories are hard to relive.
So she walked, and she wandered, and she hoped that Peter and his shadow would lead her to Paris again.
She had the marvel and her soul was always there, but she could never make them see it. Not the way she did.