The Metrics of a Woman

Eyelashes would appear sometimes on the high cheekbones of the room. And she'd make wishes she'd share with no one. Long, soft tendons quietly rearranging the paths of dormant skeletons. As the darkness blinked through its amnesia to call her by name.

Away from her perch looking back at them. The hours disposing of their faces with the casual acumen of arithmetic. Subtraction. As efficient as it is callous. The birth of experience coinciding with the death of everything that has given it to us.

Damn the truth for being so honest. Damn the lies for telling me what I wanted to hear. Damn me for believing either one.

Mark the distance from her hand to her cheek. It's in that number you'll find the measure of a woman.

How long she's waited.

For you to find her.