Perfect Lips

The 4th poem in the Ivory Skin series.

Perfect Lips



She stood in the darkened hallway.

She could see her clearly,

see the pain in her eyes,

the blue, black, streaks on her face,

the gun in her hand.



Her heart felt heavy.

Her mind raced.

She wanted to reach out,

but instead,

she stood in the black safety of the shadows.



For what seemed an eternity,

she stared,

fully aware that the image she saw,

was staring at a black,

empty,

void.



A single tear appeared in the corner of one of her eyes,

and slowly rolled down her cheek.



She wished that for once,

just once,

she could reach out,

let her know that she was still there.

Let her know,

that better than anyone else,

she understood.



She wished that for once,

just once,

she could hold her,

in her arms.

Comfort her from the pain.

Show her life,

beyond the image in the mirror.



But it simply could never be.



It had to be the way,

it was to be.



She had to remain the image in the mirror,

to keep her wonderful life,

her beautiful home,

amazing children,

loving husband.



She couldn't bear to watch anymore.

She slowly turned to walk away.



Her perfect lips,

quivered.

Her breathing,

came in short gasps.

She felt tightness in her chest,

like someone tightening a belt.



She turned slowly.



A single thought came to her mind.



'Is she, not me?'



© December 21, 2012