You glance at beauty.
It’s a silent exhilaration, a rendezvous unbeknownst to all.
You dress the four corners of your eyes with her red rose,
Releasing yourself within her smile.
The requited glimpse you elicit refracts the heat that you interred
In her tender earth, where the ear and the neck become one.
It sweltered budding petals on her back and blossomed velvety on her feverous flesh.
You perspire at her sudden control of the rein,
Your recompense for restraining your admiration to ocular amusement.
You stare, insisting on the proposition she abandoned at a lash’s bat.
The infinity of this second, her unwithering beauty—
One that knows not of age—
Lingers in a gust of overindulged perfume, coquettish lace, metronomic stilettos, tremulous cleavage.
A sea of flowery tresses forever drowns the nameless vision,
As faceless now as when she was unseen.
You blink away the temptation.
You look again, haunted by the loss of what you never had.
The ghost of what you could have been.
1939 Tournament of Roses queen [Graphic]. Los Angeles Public Library Photo Collection. Accessed on 11/30/2017