Lady Luck

She wanted to be alone, so she left. She headed east in a white shirt and broken jeans. It didn't matter where she was going because it didn't matter where she came from. She drifted away. The wind carried her bones.

They called her Lady Luck because she seemed to have run out. She was a walking statue, a frozen portrait, moving and waiting, a ghost, it seemed, forgotten and unnamed. Lifeless with no tombstone. She seeped light; it shot out of her in the dark, despite her attempts to push it back in. And she pressed her feet gently on the concrete, terrified of breaking, of shattering.

She was staring up at the Lite-Bright stars when he found her, swaying in the night. A child.

"I can't find it," she breathed, "The earth keeps spinning and I can't find it."

"Can't find what?"

"It's the only one I know. Not the Big Dipper; everyone knows that one. This one is mine. My watcher, my angel. But the earth keeps spinning and I can't find it."

It would return to her. Of all the wonders, mysteries, disappearances, and disappointments, her watcher would return to her once again. She'd bask in those midnight hours; the moonlight as it bled. She'd press her fingertips into the blackened sky and loved.