I sit by my vanity,
Before the face of a stranger.
She wears red fox fur - authentic,
And a ceramic smile - rehearsed.

"Who are you?" I ask.
Our lips move in synchronization,
Our tongues speak in unison,
But she does not answer me.

Her eyes - green and misty -
Remind me of a forest in the rain;
I furiously jot down the metaphor.
Her skin, so fair and fairly aged,
Reminds me of bourbon whiskey;

Old,
Smooth,
And curiously bold:

(I would only ever take a sip
If it were from my lover's lips
When he'd get drunk and kiss me.)

Still I can only understand her
By what I write into a verse,
But should I try to understand her
If I know the truth will hurt?
Being in pain and going insane -
Which of the two is truly worse?

You see,

The strange thing about this stranger -
She reminds me of liquor and rain,
But also of something stranger,
Something dangerous
And impossible to tame.
She reminds me of the lust for fame,
The lust for love and cocaine too,
In a time when mine
Was a different name,
And my eyes, like skies
Were stormy, gray and blue.

But with rememberance
Of my name,
And of my lost fame as a dancer,
Comes also the forgotten pain,
If she ever were to answer.

If she ever were to answer,
She'd uncover all I've tried to hide
From myself,
From the world -
Ever since the day I died.
I'm no longer a dancer,
My eyes are no longer blue.

Who am I?

"Everyone," is my answer.
The real question is,
Who are you?

-HSS