I love seeing myself destroyed–
After I've cried for the second or third time in a row
I sit cross-legged in front of a full length mirror.

Two eyelashes, exhausted from their firm rooting, drifted to the soft of my cheek.
My lips jut out, raw as if kissed into submission, shadowing chin below.
The fascination comes from the way age seems to have settled nicely
Between the tectonic planes of my brow, cheeks, nose, and forehead.
Why is this the face I love most?

Perhaps the deep shadows, concealed and brightened by hand before leaving home,
Whisper to me that, although sadness can hollow and stain,
So, too, will joy make one full and fresh.

This face is not a gimmick.
It does not call for pomp or flash– only gentle kindness
And a tender brush of the hand.

This face, in all its forms, will I love
Still when those brush strokes of worry do not iron out by sleep and sunlight alone.
Even when the flush of youth is replaced by old-age's ground frost.
Even when all my life's memories are stored
In folds and pockets, pores and hollows
For everyone to see.
I will love this face.