Creaking – the wooden floor beneath my
Chilled feet smells of old tradition.
I creep – tip-toeing in the direction of the white powdered corpse.
The windows watch through their butterfly pastel-colored curtains –
Telling nobody. Although maybe the trees outside also spy and
Share the secret.
Than another on her once necklace-holding neck.
Love because they haven’t returned.
They must have taken my confidence with them.
I need it back – badly.
Breathing into her once-lipsticked lips
I notice her once-wide hips.
They’ve shrunken by now.
I consult my friend Imagination.
Now Age – Once again youthful –
Restores the peachiness in my Femininity’s silk of skin.
I restore her lipstick and rosy cheeks.
Imagination restores her necklace –
But only Destiny can restore her delicacy.
And Curiosity can pry open her deep pale blue eyes.
The squeaky door to the long hall of mirrors awaits
Her slow passage.
The windows simply continue to stare in silence –
The butterflies from the curtains almost
Come to life – long enough to flutter
The fan still stirs the air.
The floor still smells of old tradition.
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