one of the purest rituals we will ever go through is the act of
washing our faces.
when sun soothes our glassy panes
and blooms, drop by drop of sun exploding into a delicious yellow mango light
tiles upon tiles upon tiles glowing lustrously.
the clean squeak of the faucet, its protest at being manhandled a weak
torrent of liquid
splishing, splashing
wet.
and when we bring a palmful of that cold elixir to the velvet of our sleepy faces
that morning cold is the true wake up that caffeine can never bring.
looking at our faces in the reflection
faces shining, drips rolling down our necks, down our shirts
lips eyebrows eyelashes cheeks
we gleam.
we're beautiful.
we gleam like we must have
in the wee hours of our lives.