The Face on the Envelope

Your hands are slim yes,
But not like a models,
Thin and dry like a twig,
A sapling dried by desert wind,
Oh and your eyes,
What eyes they are,
Deep as moon craters,
Sinking right back into your head,
You mock haute couture,
With dung coloured rag,
Your wounds I think must be inside,
With little water,
You cannot spare the tears,
Consumed by cracked earth.