You tighten the strands of my corset,
the skin underneath the layers of silk,
vibrant and bright with every brush of your finger.
Your mouth moves to say words but my eyes are drawn to your reflection in the dainty mirror.
"Honey," I say
"Honey is your skin and wine are your speeches. My throat is dry and slashed from swallowing our secrets from thirsting eyes."
And your lips tug forward into
a smiling crane and the creases under my eyes fold into each other.
Origami paper pleats in your French gown move like fluid water when you fall into line beside me.
"And you," your teeth nibble upon my earlobe, you whisper into the looking glass.
"Have a soft tongue that makes the flesh inside my mouth foam like pomegranate soap and the juices you mix with my own fizz like apple cider on my taste buds."
My carefully crocheted fingertips find their way into your blond wig at your
slow breaths, playing with some stray
prisoners who weren't pressed onto
the heap as flawlessly as the rest of you.
Your eyes colour the lines
of my body, my cheeks turn warm, brightening the poppy extract swished upon my white powdered complexion.
"Do you think there will be a day when I don't have to keep my love for you penned and wedged into wigs and black liner and powder that leaves patches?"
you ask so feverishly, the shivers emitting from your touch gushing down my shoulder blades and into
the twisted knot that is my stomach.
The question lingers in my ears
as your stare greets mine, lips pinned into a frown and hands limp from faint lipstick stains.
¨I think not.¨
