I never could draw a decent self portrait,
my lines were always askew.
I could sketch you as though Da Vinci himself took my pen.
I still recall the mischievous line of your brow,
the delicate curve of your lips,
the sensual shade of your skin,
I do not carry the recollection of how my cheeks rest when I smile.
Perhaps it is because we stare at what we find beautiful,
and I am always avoiding mirrors.