It was a funny thing
that a girl who knew lips
through the lead of her pencil, the bold curves
and butterfly arches
the dips and creases and fullness of
the lower
in proportion to the upper, but not in proportion
with her own
would spend hours perfecting strokes
running her finger over the taunting image
a kind of torture subconsciously inflicted
and at its completion, she
would place her thumb over the angel’s own indent
and pray

She waited so long
turned her cheek to rash offers
refused to lower her eyelids, submit to just any combination
of creases and indents and
butterfly arches
until May
brought a boy
a pair of lips of the most
perfect proportion—
she made sure of this,
measured each distance with her own
touch