that you're not here to see me
walk in stilettos,
shine my lips with gloss,
or do my eyes in dark, dark blue mascara?
Why should it matter, love
that I'm walking the streets in my flip-flops
mistaken for a tramp,
sometimes for a foreigner?
Why should it matter, my love
that my hours of despair,
are never yours,
and my tears- passé?
Why should it matter
that in staring at the blinding blue of the sky,
my tears get mistaken
for the bubbles that float in space?
What should it matter, my darling
that in staring at the blankness of the computer screen,
in drinking hot water absent-mindedly on a warm day,
in forgetting to stay in touch with the world,
I've build a world within?
What should it matter?
In all my absentmindedness and masquerades,
my skin ripples with the acknowledgement
of your movement within.
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