#46
Thumb prints
I wipe away the smoke from the mirror,
leaving oily lines across my face;
but even with the jarring distortions,
I see you behind me looking in.
And your hand is on my shoulder.
In this cold gray morning,
the stains of tears are muddy
and our eyes are burning together,
as we stare into those old pasts
looking back at us in each other.
The sky turns blood red with fire
when the sun rises its head from the covers,
while lacing its toes with the stars.
It's odd seeing my thumb prints
covering your smile, leaving only the traces
of a frown that shatters the glass bracings
that protect our hearts.
But they're always there.