PAINTED LADY

It's time.
You're so much in my thoughts it's a shock
to see my face not yours in the mirror.
Fingers tremble a wing of hair behind one ear:
new style for a new start.

I gaze into the glass, motionless as a pinned butterfly,
my eyes patterned with intricate markings
of hope.

Zip rips the silence. Makeup clatters out.
Lids await their dusting of pollen
in colours fragrant with memory.
Grey, light as the Irwell sparkling with sunshine,
or storm cloud dark, when we laughed in the rain;
a blush of sunset, its amber tones
trapping me in the past when I was still cocooned
in innocence, wrapped fast in your silken lies.

Hard decisions split the chrysalis,
letting determination flutter free.
Mascara curls lashes into a Venus flytrap
to capture your attention, keep it.
Lipstick kisses flesh like a premonition
or a promise.

There.  I'm done.  The lady, painted.
It's time.