My Face is falling

My face is falling. My face is falling,

heavy highlighted skin drooping like misted clay.

In this café I was approached by an awkward and hovering young man.

He told me I was stunning. He is here today and walks past me.

The couple beside me is new and the girl is too eager. Her face is smooth

and perfect and as he hands her coffee she looks up at him

in the practiced hook of beauty. I had a look like that just months ago.

 I could muster it up again. But today my face is falling.

My eyes are bushed. I am no different than the old man in the corner,

Covered in his beard, hacking up his dinner, his face falling into his lap.