Translucent paint flakes off of

her porcelain skin that after

fifty years remains smooth.



Thin pink lips that don't curl

upwards, weighed down by plump

rosy cheeks, rest soft on the eye.



Every wafting invisible strand of

straw-blonde hair sewn into her scalp

by hand is worth saving.



Old light illuminates her

transcendent eyes, scattering

stars across the peeling walls.



Her gown, finer than anything worn

by real little girls, hemmed and

re-hemmed, moth-eaten and gossamer,



Lacy and dainty and faded on the left

side, the side that's been facing

the window for decades



Floats with the draft of the night

And soaks up the sun, the sun's

tangible rays of dust.



Oh, sweet lovely, I see

you in all of your splendor,

the grime doesn't damper



Your glowing facade.

The cobwebs

keep you warm at night.