She is the flower of nowhere;

she is the messy hair that smells good;

she is the leather jacket and the missing boots,

she is the goddess of hopeless romantics.
People often call her Julie,

but she denies any recognizable name.

Julie stands in the middle of the crossroads

and guides people in the wrong direction.

“That way, darling.”

She looks right into the passenger’s eyes while pointing aimlessly.