Look deep.
Mirrors lined with gilded beads,
framing the white walls of your ornamental jail,
black cherry floors littered,
piles of silk fabrics, dyed pretty to match
your dreams.
A dozen shoes,
walking shoes, running shoes …
to escape, to climb, look pretty
on your fancy stilts for fancy parties.
Pressed powders, stains for lips, paint
for your eyes,
don’t let them see.
They can’t know you’re real.
Curly hair, curly lashes, batting
to win pretty rocks, fancy silk.
You can leave red stains with those painted lips,
printed on a collar. On a cheek.
Maybe with the earth on my hands
I can paint pictures in mud, green stai
Midnight rises early here.
Soft lights give the illusion of day,
but you sleep as though dawn were fast approaching.
I can still taste wine.
Glasses empty by our bed, the cork still on the floor.
You threw it there, and I wanted to pick it up,
to scrawl the date and remember
when you loved me.
It could never be like this;
like fireworks and perfect pictures.
This illusion will fade as fast
as the pink of sunrise
and morning dew,
burned by the harsh light of daybreak
when shadows and mystery fade
to tedious shows of
promises.
But I still remember that cork
on the floor,
thrown for the sake of kisses
that couldn’t wait,
and touches tha
Look deep.
Mirrors lined with gilded beads,
framing the white walls of your ornamental jail,
black cherry floors littered,
piles of silk fabrics, dyed pretty to match
your dreams.
A dozen shoes,
walking shoes, running shoes …
to escape, to climb, look pretty
on your fancy stilts for fancy parties.
Pressed powders, stains for lips, paint
for your eyes,
don’t let them see.
They can’t know you’re real.
Curly hair, curly lashes, batting
to win pretty rocks, fancy silk.
You can leave red stains with those painted lips,
printed on a collar. On a cheek.
Maybe with the earth on my hands
I can paint pictures in mud, green stai
Midnight rises early here.
Soft lights give the illusion of day,
but you sleep as though dawn were fast approaching.
I can still taste wine.
Glasses empty by our bed, the cork still on the floor.
You threw it there, and I wanted to pick it up,
to scrawl the date and remember
when you loved me.
It could never be like this;
like fireworks and perfect pictures.
This illusion will fade as fast
as the pink of sunrise
and morning dew,
burned by the harsh light of daybreak
when shadows and mystery fade
to tedious shows of
promises.
But I still remember that cork
on the floor,
thrown for the sake of kisses
that couldn’t wait,
and touches tha