Sweep the brush across the skin,
glide the pigment along the curves,
and comb the strands into a clip.
Wasted preparation
evolved into self imposed routine.

Cover the marks with dots,
insert the thin membranes,
and pull the wand upwards.
Praying for chance encounters
and careless smiles.

But it all slips
through fingers,
like water.
New clothes remain in bags.
Hopeful plans disintegrate
while optimism tries to say,
attempting to find the positive
in the lack of certainty.