Homecoming

There was a time when make-up mattered at 6:00--at least
it seemed that it should. Eyes needed touching up, a dollop more mascara,
and powder dusted loosely over skin--smoothing lines and sealing in shine. Lipstick—
that was always last, time taken to outline, to fill--in, to enhance lips that waited—
to be kissed--but never were.

Each night, they waited--those rouge stained lips, to be tasted, to be touched, to be felt by the man who never would--never wanted—
never even saw them.

Yet, still they readied themselves, just in case;
maybe tonight would be the night, but it never was. And each time--each time they were left so perfectly red,
a little piece inside was torn away,
and died a quiet but somber death.

And no one knew. No one saw. No one understood.
But death, no matter how silent or how hidden,
is still death, and can not be denied.