She watches me in the mirror

preparing to met you.

She doesn’t know.

She must know.There are your fingerprints everywhere

and they shine though my skin like coins from

the bottom of a pool.

People who know me are surprised they say I look different,

but it has nothing to do with hair or neckline or noticeable waist.

It is  the way desire looks in a woman when it is revived

when it is no longer pressed  senseless under heavy glass.

It begins  to break through my skin loud as red roses

in a white white room.