To the lipstick that made my Mom happy, I smelt you today, because the sudden rise of your aroma, a suddenly ripe expiration to a wax well used, sticky, rich, and captivating. A heavy tread across the highlights of your lips. Creases of embarrassed smiles, a guilt of not belonging, or a lessening, or insecurity. Yeah, that's about ripe. But your thickness glamourized my Mom with your crimson promise, of keeping her young, beautiful, a ritual of engagement with the mirror, A promise she knew. Always hid. JmWC 11 18 20 1053
Because it exists and so do I...