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64- Makeover

Melodrama I spoke of,
What is more melodramatic,
Than you, My Lord?
The God of Drama, you are.

And everything that you
Even think about, turns out dramatic.
And I am a living example
For that very theory of mine.

There are days when I wake up early,
Look into that gilded mirror,
And know what I have to do.
That is: a makeover.

I braid my hair intricately,
Woven with little jasmine blooms,
Leaving a few curls unbound,
Purposefully, for that very breeze.

And dust golden bronze glitter,
Over my cheek bones and eyelids,
With that blue black kohl I line,
My lashes and draw them like lotuses,

I pinch my pale cheeks to let,
Delicate colour seep in,
And then place those stones,
On my forehead like a Tilak.

And then those brushes come to play,
I dip them in every color possible,
To draw little flowers and buds,
In a curve above my dark brows.

Paint my small lips in the colour
Of a light rose pink,
Not too dark yet not too faded.
Then come all those heavy earrings,

Bangles, rings, tikka et cetera
Follow up and I bedeck myself,
With each of all the useless,
Accessories I have ever seen.

There was no reason, Milord,
That morning, for me to dress up,
Except for You.
Loving you, in a way,
Makes me love myself.

Well, there was no use for that makeover,
You know why, Milord?
Because Beauty loses meaning.
When You are the Lover.