I love to touch my face;
Please don’t take that from me
You see, no one else does now
So I take extra special care to.
No holy palmer’s palm
Or wing-tipped butterfly kiss
Sentimental Eskimo nuzzle
(Which in part I am grateful for –
Do not ‘boop’ my nose
I. Am. Not. A. Fucking. Dog.)
So normally, come nighttime
I knead my third eye wide
Knuckles marked with indigo,
Scalp awash with violet light
Come morning, I’ll awaken with a stroke
Of the downy soft fuzz on my cheeks
Cleanse, tone, moisturise
Upward prayer motions
And daily affirmations
Before ripping out the root
On my upper lip
My fingers take flight off my ski-slope nose
My tired eyes rubbed with comfort soft
Hands soothing brow and cracking jaw
The scaffolding which holds my head
Up as we chat and chat
On Skype and Zoom
and House Party.
House parties should mean tobacco stained fingers
In my hair
Asking questions of my lips
Answered with the playful nip of a fox cub
With kohl smoked eyes gazing upwards to yours; to the stars.
My face lost in the mirror of yours
The unsavoury stale beer upon your tongue
Now I am the only one
Given the gift of touch;
Never realised until now
That I’d missed it all that much.
Rebecca Rae writes in all manner of ways - from poetry, plays, creative non-fiction and short stories to film and theatre criticism; in 2018 she was shortlisted for the Royal Court Writer's programme and has also taken part in Papatango's Write West scheme and various courses with Literature Works. She tweets @RHRae.