Like Jesus’s face on the painting in the kitchen, like the bird’s beak as he climb up the wires. Like the piece that falls in the stove splintered open and my face is chalky caked with make up and even though my camera’s hanging from my neck I haven’t touched her in eons.
Like freckles scattered across your nose and in the morning I wake up sloppy bright. I nod at your sadness because it makes you real and raw, rawness makes you real so life can touch you. And when the sun’s up and we’re swimming in a sea of faces I admit I’m only ever looking for yours