Hatred or affinity?

Crow’s foot on either sides of her eyes,
Dry crimson paint cracking to reveal parts of skin,
leaves and dry mud — disgusting yet sensual,
smiling, cringing, whining and whinging.

The ends of her hair sway loosely like fronds of a fern,
she trips but stabilises breathing in the air, 
her movements neither monotonous nor passionate
bring them closer, but aren’t enough for them to be together,
‘nothing’s enough’, she whimpers, nearly.

she ambles along taking small steps, fingers trembling,
her feet tanned in the areas exposed by her fancy shoes,
her chipped toe nail polish reveal how she’s stopped caring,
she’s glowing nevertheless, her eyes speaking of suppressed ribaldry.

Gripping it tightly she moves along, panting as she does, 
she pauses finally, to bend down and take a hand full of sand. 
she walks on, 
carrying a part of what she thought once belonged her.
Although the Partition brewed hatred, it could not allay affinity.