you
can’t stand your face
despite your eyes
and how your lips
speak beautiful lies
are honest opinion
to your ears
covered nicely by
wavy hair
til its up in a bun
and you’re the starving artist
in a soho studio
with an old tee
the past left laying around
white with creative intuition
defining how your life’s been
a lot like your chin
and how it fits in
the top of a loose fist
while you think
and your elbow digs into the thigh
you always noticed
but so did i
skin cooler then the far side
of a pillow case
and dark as hardwood flooring
in a tiny house
because who needs anything big
when you’ve got all you need
right here
in front of you
wearing sandals
made of armadillo hyde