The Epidermis of Lacquer

Just spread, a pulse in slow rivers,
an expanse pregnant with promises.
The pigment, a liquid sleep you feel,
stretches and vibrates through humid uncertainties.

Then the air sucks, a kiss without haste,
the moisture evaporates into an invisible weave.
A skin forms, taut, imperfect,
a memory of waves, now fragile and sensitive.

The veil hardens, a gentle seal,
capturing time in an opaque epidermis.
No longer the fluid dance, but what receives
the light—a shell, a placid story.