Rose-tinted Cycles

She flaunts pale envy,
Colors sliding off her shoulders
In layers of broken sensibility,
The order of the day around her arm.

Catching the day as she turns her head,
That store window hair.

Yet, it all mismatches the morning,
That exploited peace of mind
Found in her pretty face.

The world window-shops,
Mildly, with her in mind.

Can't quite touch her exact moment
Where they are, for they had been there
In those five minute shades,
Walked in those five hour shoes.

Later they will see differently,
Should walk longer than she.
Until memories are forgotten
And the style is "vintage".