Unblemished and blank she is,
A statue with breath so colourless and unable to call
To passers-by with bags weighing their arms:
An empty canvas laid bare for all.
She catches my attention like
The pretty dream catcher that she is,
I stare and she stares back
Through a wall of glass and morning mist.
Milk white is her skin; I paint her dirty brown.
Broken strokes with paintbrushes craving rest,
Her thighs widen and dry patches crack as
The birth mark on her shoulder and her black locks caress,
Her lonely dimple is faint
And her lips are plump and a small scar
Is slightly hidden by her left eyebrow;
I fill her eyes with hazel – velvety but far.
I stare inside the wall of glass
As the shop owner shoots a suspicious glare,
I snap out of the illusion and once again
An empty canvas stands, flawless and fair,
Unblemished and blank.
But I remain standing with knees so weak
As rain begins to fall and droplets slide and distort
As they fall down my dirty, brown, cheek.
She catches my eye, that pretty dream catcher,
My reflection: the poetry I had failed to believe
And so I whistle down the high street of expectation,
My lonely dimple deepening as I leave.