The lipstick slid on but not right.
Where was the sticky-slick sweetness?
The quiet perfume that spoke of its expense?
Piled into the bra, her tits looked okay,
but released they were not right.
Empty, sullen, as if someone else
had worn and mistreated them.
She picked up her keys,
amazed they did not slide
through the mirage of her hand.
Snapping shut the something
masquerading as a purse,
she looked up at the clock with no tick
to begin another day of the dead.
a few ideas coming together hear nicely without loss of focus or the central point.
the picture appears to be of a life repeating, losing its vitality and sense.
i like the as if on her “not right” tits leaving open to question to how she got “here”
Thank you. I don’t have an answer yet for how she got ‘here’. I don’t know that there is one to be had. But I’m feeling my way, hoping something resolves. Kind of like a polaroid coming clear.
Oh another ghost story, maybe, or just the time spent transitioning to another plane. Whatever it maybe it is an interesting thought thrown out for our reading pleasure. Thank you as always RG.
Ohhh … dark & echoing. Nicely done as always. Some days feel like this… Like you are marching on when no one notices or cares, not even yourself.
Kudos on another awesome post