Doomed Attempt

I put on lipstick, not quite crimson, true
To my own skin tones, add a little blush
(My mother would have called it rouge). “No rush,
Take all the time you need,” I’m hearing you
Explaining how it works, like a whole crew
Of architects. Plucked eyebrows, once too lush,
Give way to pencil. Look in the mirror: hush!
Say nothing. “Nothing?” This is nothing new.

This isn’t near as beautiful a face
As yours: powder won’t help, nor will eyeliner,
Nor gowns from that unrivalled French designer
With his visions in taffeta, sans lace.
This doomed attempt just puts me in my place.
I miss you, and it isn’t something minor.