Is that my face
or is it the mirror’s blunt edged humour?
It could just be the wrong time.
Neither of us are flattered whether it be night or day.
The rag washed painted wall supports the fraud
and cracks under the strain.
Fine lines and powdered plaster filter through
the flitting sunlight –
deft breezes see the masquerade and thwarts
its attempts to settle –
they are blown
far and away, and she thinks of him.
Is that the time,
or another deceitful ploy to disrobe my mind?
He asks her if it would be so wrong to imagine
both of them pale in the gleeful shadows of morning,
but ingrained memories of loose women smear
the bed sheets; fine lines and perfect powder
are reapplied and she flits into the sunlight.
Jealous elements scowl and tumultuous rain
washes her away – sins follow.
Far away, she still thinks of him.