I Cannot Recall . . .

This face that is my reflection, I wonder who it is.
The skin looks young, full and flush with the brush strokes of life.
Like a tan-colored peach, with a surface like a smooth unpeeled orange.

The eyes set back, each in their alcoves separated by the flesh which flows down from the forehead to almost meet the lips, forming the nose.
These eyes, kind, compassionate and piercing.
Tones of grey, olive, blue and white in their various order to create the illusion of multiple colors.
All accentuated by long black hairs that appear to present this pallet of intricately arranged colors.

The lips, like a pair of carved pieces of maroon-colored mahogany.
Each lip displaying it's individual grain and subtle yet weathered texture.
The top lip, shaded by the mustache's collective of hair while the bottom lip gives display of it's small tuft of hair beneath it.

The jaw line, loud yet subtly proclaiming it's framing of this face.
The forehead displaying it's empty space, marked only by an unfinished indented-line across the middle.
As the centerpiece of the chin appears like a well-pruned brush clinging to a cliffside.
Few  wiry hairs from the brush reach out to greet the unknown air beyond the chins domain.

Continuing to stare, uncertain of this face's ownership.
The features subtly lift to an acknowledging smile.
Why of course, this face is mine.