Her face last night, the same she wore when we met in Berlin or was it Paris where her lips touched mine like a foreign word perfectly translated; her face, the key she used to decipher me.
I never thought her visage would change as it did in Manhattan on stage, as Evita so versatile, too complex for me, a pauper of faces, unable to read them except in darkness when subtleties fell from her slate; my fingers caught her then.
Away from me now, I imagine images her mirror trap and releases—moments of emotional clarity I inhale whole.
Sometimes she turns her back when I misread, calls me her Tom Sawyer when she paints her lips to tell a story I can’t see the ending of.