Hey, could you lay your forearm on my leg 

And hold still so the nail polish won’t smudge?

With the window propped, fumes rise straight to my head.

Fingertips alight with biotic touch.

Our fingers tangle between lip-gloss shine,

And swallowing stones. Girlhood rituals.

Except I’ve not been a girl in a long time,

And you haven’t started yet. It’s residual.

Fake plastic flowers. Your set profile.

There’s this sweet curve at the bridge of your nose

And a birthmark at your hip. That’s why I’ll

Always dredge up my memories for you.

Have you tried my mascara yet? I’ve had this bottle for five years.

It might be expired. Use it in the corner of your eyes.