Lips, like fresh petals of rose,
Lined fine and soft in pencil lead—
Her little work of art—
Rendered in red with a blend of blue.
It is hers.
The texture and feel of fresh rose:
Papery, moist, such thin skin;
Hers to pout and flaunt.
To him a privilege: they brush
Delicately across his cheek –
Like free fleeting petals of rose
Floating in an errant breeze;
Fluttering like tiny butterfly wings.
It dares him –
Stretching his control!
Her ploy’s painted on her lips.
Copyright ©2001. Elo Igboeli. All Rights Reserved.
The Diaryist 