She does her make-up on the train

It’s too late, lady
Suffocating graft
has killed the fire that
formed your face and lit
it from within The
lines you write will make
no sense now your hot
certainties are ash
Across the aisle you
catch my covert glance
Beneath the pumice mask
your eyes still glow
not with dying heat
but resignation
as you drop beyond
my hand into the
depthless swallowing
darkness of your head