I won't nitpick your poem
but would love to peek at your shoulder.
I visualize it milk-white
the way romantics used to write
about it projecting coquettishly forward.
When you mention morning crèmes
and subsequent facial metamorphosis
I laugh
remembering my not so distant middle age
waking next to an unrecognizable woman
I didn't recall meeting the eve before.
So goes my observations and
imaginary chuckling.
And yes, the title of your poem
is like a titled painting.
Princely!
Another lovely write for you
and an expanded inspiration for me
to pay homage
with my highest admiration.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem