Tracer

This definitely isn't perfect, but I decided to post it anyway. Any thoughts would be wonderful. :)


I dream of tracing my fingertips along the rips in your jeans,

of dabbling through the bruised pools beneath your eyelashes,

because all they really are are rogue ink scrawls

that have somehow managed to escape

the nib of your pen

and meld into the surface of your skin.

I am an artist, and this I cannot resist.

All I am is an enormous tattoo,

a network of scars and jags and flowered patterns

whorling across the jut of my waist

and the bird-skin of my anklebones.

I once chose to wear a mask,

but it was a pitiful masquerade, and in the end

I chose to toss it off

and resign myself to the spattered nakedness of my reality.

But you are much better than me, your mask a masterpiece,

all paper mache effortlessly brushed with effervescent hues

and a flexible mouth that twists into convincing smiles.

But only I know of the soft skin that lies behind

because only I have hooked my fingertips beneath the edges

and seen the pale truth beneath.

You frighten me, because you

have worn your mask for so many years

that it has woven its threads into the seams of your skull

and healed into scars that are thinner than lost roads

on a forgotten atlas beneath my driver's seat.

You have become far too attached to your mask

to feel the ribbon-touch of a spring wind.

You have built a fortress of glimmering color.

Yet, in the misty moments before I fade into dreaming,

I can't help but think of my fingernails touching the mask

and removing it with a smile and a cracking sound,

to watch your damp jaw work in cool grateful freedom

and realign with mine in one effortless swoop.