whatever makes it hurt
There's shadow on your face in places it shouldn't be. Not the tired kind of shadows, the ones that make now weekly appearances beneath your eyes and in the sallows of your cheeks. And not the mystery kind of shadows, the ones that cloak half your face in darkness on really romantic nights when no one can be sure about anything. The shadows fall instead in long sad lines like tears except thicker and deeper running the length of your face from your scalp to your chin. I'd like to run that length, but I'd probably finish last.
On really romantic nights, those half faced shadows play tricks on the eye - is it a young woman smiling or an old woman frowning? A happy clown or a sad cop? Is the staircase going up or is it going down? (frowning, cop, down - respectively.) I go salsa dancing with my own confusion and when the music gets slow and sexy, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in tight and he lets his hands drop to that delicate no-man's land right between the hip and the ass and I wouldn't mind if he let it drop down south a bit, but he won't. He's too much of a gentleman.
I can't force myself to worry about the other half of your face, the half that I can't see. I'm sure it reads the same exact blank stare. Not a gaze not a glare. You're not fond, not in love. You're running through your grocery list in your head and I'm halfway inside of you right now. Milk, (I'm scraping my hand on your five o'clock shadow), bread, (I'm tracing the prints on your fingers), turkey, (
On really romantic nights, those half faced shadows play tricks on the eye - is it a young woman smiling or an old woman frowning? A happy clown or a sad cop? Is the staircase going up or is it going down? (frowning, cop, down - respectively.) I go salsa dancing with my own confusion and when the music gets slow and sexy, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in tight and he lets his hands drop to that delicate no-man's land right between the hip and the ass and I wouldn't mind if he let it drop down south a bit, but he won't. He's too much of a gentleman.
I can't force myself to worry about the other half of your face, the half that I can't see. I'm sure it reads the same exact blank stare. Not a gaze not a glare. You're not fond, not in love. You're running through your grocery list in your head and I'm halfway inside of you right now. Milk, (I'm scraping my hand on your five o'clock shadow), bread, (I'm tracing the prints on your fingers), turkey, (