She has a way of moving her hands,
the subtle lift of wrist as she smooths shadow over eyelid,
the stroke of azure that finds the crease,
pale beige that floats to brow.
I watch, mesmerized…
as her fingertips provoke cool flesh,
smudging liner against moon glow pallor,
the pale pink that finds the lips unyielding-
“How…..?” I ask finally.
“Some are easier than others,” she admits
as her warm, dark hands ease the sable brush
over the high plane of cheekbone,
narrowing in on its territory
“she seems at peace, though very young.”
My gaze lowers to the unanimated girl-
still as secrets.
The dark dress concealing
the unspoken laws of the living,
never having learned the language of the heart,
never yielding to the pleasures of the flesh.
Life has lead to white linen sheets, not wrapped
in laughing limbs, entangled
but pulled up and over by this woman here
who dapples the girl’s mouth with pigment now.
And I wish, how I wish:
That I could kiss her awake once more.