I stared at this woman from a slight distance, I considered that she looked a bit like me.
She wore a dark rouge stain on her lips, and there was a certain coral tint to her cheeks.
The shade of her lipstick highlighted the paleness of her pigment.
I solemnly began to believe that she appeared to be content in her sentiment
regarding.. well, everything.
Observing, I couldn’t reject the feeling that though she visibly seemed fulfilled, she also seemed frightened of some sort— for her lips trembled with every word she spoke.
I once heard that the eyes are the window to the soul.
In which case the hazel iris gave off nothing but impassive expressions,
with a significant amount of wavering worry,
concealed behind those lengthy, ebony eyelashes.
Those same lashes that fluttered rapidly up and down almost as to convince herself of the idealized beauty she applied on a daily basis.
The facade made it evident of the oasis, the emotional shelter— she yearned to find, but looked in only the most fallacious places.
Her words, sugarcoated with ambiguity, and layered with equivocated disposition.
She was vigorously eager to quench her thirst for fresh knowledge, especially for someone in her position.
but she always conducted herself hesitantly.
A living, respiring contradiction containing both genius artistry,
and tedious technique.
It was unconquerable wisdom built upon the essence of her mystique.
It was a natural sequence of unorthodox traits that others found amusement in.
At this juncture, I stared at her more thoroughly.
and connected speckles of the aftermath the sun’s rays had left upon her face.
she traced the varicose vein through her freckled skin.
I stared at her.
I stared into my own reflection.
But it wasn’t through a mirror that I was staring.