The light hits her crystal earrings, gleams off their golden settings,
refracts onto her face in greens and reds and blues --
greens to reflect her eyeshadow; reds to match her lipstick;
blue to match the bags beneath her eyes
which struggle to stay open so late.
She wears a silver ring on each finger,
and as she removes them, grayish grime coats her knuckles.
She wears a black camisole whose straps threaten to break,
jeans cinctured tight about her waist.

Perhaps one night the gold from those earrings will melt
and those crystals will break
and slice the straps as they fall in snowy shards,
and tears will wash the paint from her eyes,
and the belt will slip from her waist
and the lipstick will rub off as she kisses me
once, twice, fifty times, until I lose count;
and I shall be able to see her as she truly is
before the darkness takes her from my sight.
And perhaps one day she will feel at ease
even with my eyes upon her.

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