The mineral mica,

covered by a thin layer

of titanium dioxide,
mixed with cerebrosides,
Clung to the skin of her cheeks,
holding her in her certain form.

Spackles of finely ground polyethylene methacrylate
Sparkled in the luminescent gloss,
a see-through shield glowing
Despite the dim gallery light.

I leaned towards her to peck at her cheek.
Honey, this makeup took time, she said.

She withdrew her face.
Her skin I'll never know.

I saw my reflection

in her opaque glow.
I wanted to see Her. Only Her.

My guardian angel.
The warm embrace to which I can always return.

My Maude Gonne Lebowski. My Manhattan Mariel Hemingway.  My Susan.

Her magic stirred in me.

I ran my fingers, still baby soft and tenderly naive,
across the gentle ridges of her back,
Jealous of the lime green silk that touched her.
She walked away from my hand,
Towards another exhibition.

My eyes

became painted

with a hazy gloss of their own.
Hydrogen, Oxygen, Hydrogen,

manufactured in my own ducts.

 

Clouded perception was natural, inevitable, and

I turned to my thoughts. 

 

I lay across her made-up bed earlier that evening.
Honey, put the bottle down tonight, I’d said.
But I like looking pretty.
You are pretty.

She’d stared at herself, fully formed and perfect
in her strapless raven black bra, her panties
and thigh highs to match.
Just let me be, she’d said,

and kicked the door shut.

She was gorgeous when she slipped on that dress,

But already I had lost her.

I watched the fortunate fabric creep and crawl and wrap itself

around her slowly wiggling hips

with the help of her tugging hands.

I wanted to know Her when I should have sought her,
The woman before me,

trying to mask humanity's mortal marks.
There is little fault here, and if any,

we all stand accused.

 

The fog in my eyes had begun to clear.

She stood before me again, in another white walled room, waving me towards her.
I pushed through a set of glass double doors and found
her face to face with a portrait of Julianne Moore.
The gallery placard said the real name was Julie Anne Smith.

 

Isn't this pretty, she says.
I peered into the vortex of her eyes,
the tears in the fabric of my existence,

the circular passageways, bordered by atmospheric blue walls, to the infinite darkness from which I’d come.
Yes, I say. Very.

 

Her skin I'll never know,

The tiny scar beneath her right eye,

A reminder of years ago when she skipped across her preschool playfield and tumbled.

What color was her hair then?  How long did she weep?

Who came to comfort her?  Who held her?

She walked away from me.

How could I not know such precious, tiny things?

One shimmering jade-jeweled black high heel lead the other.

Their harsh powerful taps spoke to me.

I let her walk.  I let Her walk,

she whose skin I’ll never know.