Jane Doe Number Two.
They found her unresponsive in the street.
Beneath a lamplight, I imagined, made her seem angelic.
Regal even, clean.
She must have been around 16.
She died who knows how many hours earlier that day.
The heroin inside her like a vengeful dream
about to be fulfilled.
Her hands were crossed about her chest
as though raised up in self-defense.
I tried to pry them open to confirm
the absence of her heartbeat.
But in death, she was so strong, as
resolute as she was beautiful.
I trace the track marks on her arms
instead then pressed my thumb against her bloodless lips.
So urgent was my need to know.
I felt the quiet left by a departing soul.