To the lipstick that made my Mom happy

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

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The mind, a dormant stone

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