There you are, standing in your own doorway,
barefoot and bereft of hat,
crow-black hair shaved close to olive skin –
this is the real you, a velvet vision,
someone for me to remember when the mask goes on.
Even I reach for a swipe of dark artifice
around eyes as green as the forest,
armour against a new dawn, performing the same dance,
the hiding of our true selves,
until the day we discard these glittering masks
and kick off our glass shoes.