She's prettiest just out of the shower.
Hair a turbulent tossing,
she stands at the mirror,
holding her towel over her chest,
not quite ready to wrap it around herself.
In a few minutes
she will comb the chaos,
let loose strands stray to the ground,
unseen.
In a few minutes
she will examine herself
like a child might examine greens,
thoughts I've long wished to crush
running rampant.
But now she stands at the mirror,
fresh-faced, wide-eyed,
untouched,
calm,
and maybe a little bit
empty,
if there's even a difference.
YOU ARE READING
Today, Love: An Anthology of Self
Poesíait's easier to define certain mysteries by what they are not
