Two Portraits of a Figurine

Cast in dye and argil she
is set apart
unappealing and unawake at best.
The chilly visage an imprint
disempowered of feeling.
When I weaken
she does not crumble upon me -
she stands forever a witness.
Swelled inside each tiny pore,
a century of tears
wanting to burst forth but
wrapped in a stony mantle and
a pretty face.

In its reticence
the statue draws me.
Its stillness
invites an admiration that humanity would shy away from.
Its parted lips ask more of me
than any woman ever spoke.
I control its eyes -
when I love her
I stand august before the limpid peep-holes.
In shame I move away
to keep her from this arrogance.
She loves me when I want her to.