Throw away your
mascara, mousse
and underwear.
Wear these lines
for a week,
just one week,
not a long time.

Let the words
mold your face,
drape your shoulders,
delicate breasts.
Let the lyric
infuse your dreams,
scent your pillows
press your thighs
with invisible weight.

At the end of the week
if these Emperor’s clothes
are your neon poem,
call me. I’ll be here
on hold,
won’t have eaten,
but won’t rewrite.
You are new ink
that will not dry.