We walk amidst tapestries,
their dust stories
swirling golden in the silken air,
their faces fair.

But we wear
the colors of sky cracked open,
dresses soft as eggshells broken.
And in cheap high heels,
our feet sore,
we leave apologies scuffed on the clean floor.

Alone before the microphone,
our hands shrink into pupils,
hard.
Our breaths, like sails,
tear apart
on tides of
sequined ribs and thighs,
flattery dripped
from fat, red lips,
with pearls of teeth and fingertips
strung up under marble eyes.

We sing love poems
and they just walk away
like white wine,
tiny seas swirled into storms
by heels that clink like fluted glass
when they pass
and wash their lives away
in sips.

Labels: By Ana