I watch you tend to your eyebrows
in your childhood mirror;
your parent's showroom.
You're not dressed yet.
I fix your necklace, breathe in deep
to smell your perfume.
You once told that settling down
is a kind of fatal error;
papering the walls to your tomb.
I'm staring at clouds,
your eyes are wet.
It's the coming of sleep,
shaped like a mushroom.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
I watch you tend to your eyebrows
in your childhood mirror;
your parent's showroom.
You're not dressed yet.
I fix your necklace, breathe in deep
to smell your perfume.
You once told that settling down
is a kind of fatal error;
papering the walls to your tomb.
I'm staring at clouds,
your eyes are wet.
It's the coming of sleep,
shaped like a mushroom.
c
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