ode to washing my face in the sink

this old sink,

hanging onto the wall by a thread

and a rusted pipe,

gushes water that still runs clear,

even after the generations of girls 

(in pig- and pony-tails, braids and loose) 

that have done what i'm doing:

messily splashing this beautiful water,

this water that stings and numbs,

freezing

these lips, these lips so akin to the lips of these generations of girls

(bare, glossed, bolded and chapped, pressed thin against this waterfall

of memories)

just think, this sink has seen probably tens of girls

bend and bow their heads,

cup their hands or rub them together, watching their lotion

bubble and squish between their fingers,

splashing this wonderfully cold water onto their faces

and probably their clothes,

squeezing their eyes tight before their makeup (young makeup, mascara smudged by uncertain hands, eyeshadow light, lip gloss bitten away) trickles into them

instead of going where it should,

into

this

old

sink.