None of the love songs apply to this strange love affaire. The lovelorn has yet to accept that the one she loves will not grow to love her in time. She stupidly wears her hair with the hope it will please this illusive stranger.
Her reflection becomes the center of her universe and like love ideal, it is her first thought of the day, her only genuine desire, her last prayer before she close her eyes.
She has denied herself chocolate and has long given up her smile.
Reducing her humanity to the gratuity, she has figured in to the cost of making herself presentable. A few extra dollars for the efficient women who remove unwanted hair, colour away natural roots, polish nails and rub tension from her body.
All with the hope of pleasing the one person who will never truly take pleasure in her and soon she hates as much as loves that imperfect unblinking stranger staring back from her mirror with something like sympathetic contempt in her eyes.
My love, my care,