In Veins

There are days were black-polished nails clutch on tightly to white porcelain,

and golden rings fall off tanned fingers,

and words swarm on top of throats

and hold hands to dance

in place

and stomp feet to feel

in vain

and echoes swim in salty water

up

to cling to veins

just above the eyes

but just below the eyebrows.

They say eyes mirror the beauty within.

I look for it in veins.