New makeup. Old face.
Lashes extended, blackened, become the gatekeepers for my tears.
I pretend there is something in my eye.
The skin is tight, discoloured and wrinkled, but only on one side.
My other eye is clear and normal.
One appears tired and care-worn while the other sparkles with naivete.
My eyes, like the two halves of my soul, don't match one another.
Someone, somewhere, has the mates to my eyes. And I want them back.