I turn my head
for just a glimpse
of her
and her lipstick
I wonder
who will lose his gaze
in her timid eyes
after dusk.
Will her lips leave red lines,
like vermillion imprints
on a French red wine glass
or will the pavement tremble
under the walk of her high heels?
She-is-herself—just older
than yesterday;
just bolder—than tomorrow
Old days are gone;
what else is left
beside running away
from what she knew?
a mirror holding lost memories.
I lay there in bed and stare
at her grace and feminine ways
frozen in time . . .
. . . like a statue wanting a kiss