i wonder
if i stripped this black liner
from my eyelids
if I scratched the pink
from my cheeks
if i showed my true colours
(not much different from the mask, but still
it feels like it to me)
i wonder
if i pulled my second skin, peeled
away the layer of doubt
would you still find me
beautiful?

Already over the sea from her old spouse she comes,
the blonde goddess whose frosty wheels bring day.
Why do you hurry, Aurora? Hold off, so may the birds
shed ritual blood each year for Memnon's shade.
Now it's good to lie in my mistress's tender arms;
if ever, now it's good to feel her near.
Now drowsiness is richest, the morning air is cool,
and birds sing shrilly from their tender throats.
Why do you hurry, dreaded by men and dreaded by girls?
Draw back your dewy reins with your crimson hand.
The sailor marks the stars more clearly before you rise,
not raoming aimlessly across the sea;
the traveller, though weary, arises when you come,
and the soldier sets his savage hand to arms;
you're first to see the farmers wield their heavy hoes
and to call slow oxen under the curving yoke;
you rob boys of their sleep and give them over to schools,
where tender hands must bear the savage switch;
and you send reckless fools to pledge themselves in court,
where they take ruinous losses through one word;
the lawyer and the pleader take no delight in you,
for each must rise and wrangle with new torts;
and you ensure that women's chores are never done,
calling the spinner's hands back to her wool.
All this I'd bear; but who would bear that girls must rise
at dawn, unless himself he has no girl?
How many times I've wished Night would not yield to you,
the stars not fade and flee before your face!
How many times I've wished the wind would smash your wheels,
your steeds would stumble on a cloud and fall!
Jealous, why do you hurry? If your son is black,
it's since his mother's heart is that same color.
How I wish Tithonus could still tell tales of you:
no goddess would be more disgraced in heaven.
Since he is endless eons old, you rise and flee
at dawn to the chariot the old man hates,
but if some Cephalus were lying in your arms,
you'd cry out, 'O run slowly, steeds of night! '
Why should this lover pay, if your husband withers with age?
Was I the matchmaker who brought him to you?
Remember how much sleep was given to her loved youth
by Luna - and she's beautiful as you.
The father of gods himself, to see you all the less,
joined two nights into one for his desires.
I'd finished my complaint. You could tell she'd heard: she blushed;
and yet the day rose at its usual time.

My hair falls flat and lifeless
Your fingers no longer run through it
My forehead crinkles in bitter thought
Since your lips no longer rest there so easily
My eyes brim uncontrollably throughout the day
Because yours no longer meet mine with any feeling
My nose doesn't feel much different,
Except your hand no longer gives it those playful pokes
My cheeks still get warm and red
But now it's with embarrassment at what a fool I am, you obviously no longer find me attractive
My mouth forms frowns more than ever
When I'm lost in memories since you no longer breathe life into me with every kiss
My neck feels too exposed
Now that your hands and mouth no longer gently move there

My shoulders both sag and carry tension
You no longer provide joy (or give shoulder rubs)
My arms feel empty
Your body no longer presses against mine in a warm embrace
My hands grasp thin air in the night
When I wake up and remember your fingers no longer interlock with mine
My chest always feels tighter
When I see your face because your heart no longer beats for me
My stomach rolls in a much different way
Because you no longer give me butterflies

My back doesn't feel strong
Like it should for someone of my age since you no longer give me reasons to feel strong
My thighs are simply a part of my body
They don't tremble anymore because your hot breath and touch no longer linger there
My knees are weak
When I think that you may have no longer loved me for a long time
My feet ache at the end of the day and it's noticeable
Because I stood through another day with you no longer by my side

My brain tells me that you're no good for me, it wasn't meant to be
You no longer have the feelings I'll always feel for you
My heart tells me it can beat without you, it's stronger than all of this
But it's having an awfully hard time now that you're no longer mine

I* am jealous of
your *bed
your sheets
your shirts and perfume
and smoke of your cigarette

because they wrap and cloud around you
touch you, feel your dark, soft skin
feel your warmth

when I cannot do those things
when I am too far away
spending my lonely afternoons
wishing to be

your bed
your sheets
your shirts and perfume
and smoke of your cigarette.

Get a tailor.
If speeches are edited, so should your clothes.
Suits shouldn’t be as big as your dreams.

Marry and be miserable;
or stay a bachelor and
bite the bullet at the ballot box.
Don’t love your mistresses.
Never let a mistress fall in love with you.

Cultivate coldness over glass of sweet tea
and write your principles in pencil,
but keep erasers handy.
Lead gets heavy with idealism.

Cover your tracks with charm,
but keep track of your steps.
Push down ladders as you climb them.

Finally, when you see your reflection in the gloss of your desk
and feel the smooth curves of your cherry bookshelves,
remember that under that finish are the remnants
of what once stood tall and proud.
A glossy exterior can only hope to mask a wild past.

And when you tire of tamed marble;
seeing yourself reflected in nature cut and polished,
come to the sea.
Cast off your leather shoes
– those casualties of your closet –
Roll your suit pants.
Stand firm and absolute.

You, the blond, bright-eyed pilgrim–
camouflaged in slate suits and
ties that hang like nooses.
Love the biting wind as it tousles your hair.
The coldness that demands to be felt.
Let it break like the surf, through your suit
and note the driftwood as it crashes to shore.
So smooth and strange.
A product of its past,
perfect in its imperfection.