She barely moves her lips when she speaks
a swollen word across the pinched tips
of a stolen stick of bright rouge,
an impatient sigh creasing along her brows.

She was ten when she bought candy rings
from the grocery store’s vending machine
and wore one on each of her stubby fingers
so she could be the princess of her room,
counting bits of purple cocoa wrappers
until the chocolate melted across her pink nails,
and onto her best Sunday shirt.

Her eyes shift unsteadily under the half open
lids of long, curved mascara lined lashes
and the imprint of an old smile
still reflects across her glassy face.

She was twenty when she stared too long
at the bright sun which rose across the valley
of the vineyard, until she could feel the warmth of its
blush across her cheeks and its rays pouring out of her ears.

Sometimes I see her sitting on the curb
of the road by the pond
a long forgotten smile on her face,
splashing her ankles in the cool water
as she watches the reds from her lips melt away
and maybe-
she’s wishing she could ferment herself.