Steam fills the air
Washing mirror
Coating hair
With a fine fine mist of moist
Stepping up and out of the bath
Standing on the towel
Shuffling it forward along the path
Confronting the mirror in the fog
A swipe of the hand
Reveals a face
A face that feels almost out of place
In this porcelain foggy land
A set of high cheekbones
Pouty full lips
Carefully plucked eyebrows
Hands firmly on nude hips
No makeup no agenda
Feet squarely upon the firmament
Nothing standing between her
And her own judgement
With a little wiggle
She regards her form
Her expanse of skin
Beauty getting slightly worn
She sees that she is good
A smile breaks across her thoughtful face
A soft laugh that doesn't feel out of place
And it was good
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