Her Glasses

She wears glasses.

Bold black frames

wide constantly dirty lenses

streaked with foundation and dust.

She can never find time to clean them.

Her vision is never blurred

despite the scratches and blemishes that cover every inch of her view.

She can see perfectly through her dirty lenses,

she doesn't mind;

in fact,

that’s the way she likes them.

She likes that she can see past all the grime,

that her vision is not impaired by the seemingly blinding coating of her everyday life,

that she is not influenced by the smears and streaks that try to ruin her artificial 20/20 vision

and lead her sight astray.

Except with you.

When you glide your soft hand across her cheek

stare into her bright, innocent eyes

past all the cloudiness in her lenses.

When you slide her glasses down her nose

her barrier fades.

She is vulnerable.

She no longer possesses the power to ignore the temptations you push on her.

One hand traces her back,

the other brushes her thigh,

and suddenly,

the dirt and dust and scratches and blemishes

that had once gone unnoticed

come into focus.

Her only option.

You smile.

“Everything is going to be okay”

“It’s not a big deal”

“Just relax”

“No big deal”

You smile,

pulling her too close

but

“It’s okay”.

She cannot escape your intense eyes.

You smile.

She blinks

once

twice

and suddenly she realizes her mistake.

The impurities begin to fade.

You smile,

she pushes away.

You smile,

her mind is screaming.

No!

Stop!

Where are your glasses?

Put on your glasses!

But she had already placed them on the nightstand next to the bed

too far to reach.