I sit alone. Half tempted to walk across the room to eyes that know my lies. Gesture out willingness and hope she reads between the lines.
She has the mark of past beauty, perfect for the eccentric age. Flat cheeks flushed but never reddened. Eyes that catch gazes, seemingly all knowing. Undermining my expressions then, but since never showing.
We sit together. She speaks of selfish men And I speak of conniving women. She insists we arenβt all like that, even in our dismay. Just left swimming, lost in someone elseβs bay.
We both made our demands And swore hearts had been beaten. Now laughing at our hearsays, Laughing to still be living.
I wish I could sweep away her browns. Her hair, it's always dangling. Those potent lips I will not confuse, instead beauty from a simpleton, just misconstrued.