I often gaze into your mirror and see the faces there.
I see my own first and wonder if you see what I see. Do you see the emerald seas I see? Are you fascinated with the lines of my cheek? Do you see something completely different? Do we ever really see what others see?
My Lover’s face is there – beautiful and familiar and smiling and lusting, laughing in her eyes and pouting in her lips.
I know this face more than any other, I see it most clearly of all and I would not have that any other way.
I love her face like I love her.
I see another face, always post-orgasmic, resting contentedly on her palm, frozen smile warm and inviting, a million beautiful, sexy teeth and a hand of Jade.
It will always be the same as the first time I saw it. It will never change in your mirror in my mind. It is the daring face of relaxing happiness.
It is accidental art.
But it is your face which intrigues me most, mostly because I can never see it. No matter how hard I try, I can never make out a single detail. It is hidden by a fog.
It is a mystery.
I have a general impression. It is soft and sexy, feminine and sweet, kind and beautiful. Your skin is pale, but your eyes are hidden. Your hair is dark, your nose and cheeks and jaw and brows and lashes unseeable and unknowable, and that is how it should be.
Your face is a mystery. Better, it’s a perpetual present. Forever a ribboned gift to be unwrapped by Christmas light. And that is the best kind of mystery.