Crooked paint

I don’t give notice to
the positioning of my smile
it goes crooked
and sometimes squeaks
like a rusty door on hinges.

There is no such thing as perfection
to seek it is its own penalty.
Miring yourself in useless wandering
losing time and precious touching.

I mind instead, the way the light falls,
with tender precision across your brow
as you sleep and snore, sometimes cough.
Blissfully unaware.

I watch the way the moonlight loves you
the way it inches its way forward
seeking to peer silently
into the depths of those eyes
and submerge.

My hair is never smooth
the ends consider themselves travelers.
There are curled bits, and broken bits
and bits that cannot lay flat.
Like a rug with a trip.

I am smoother still in solitude
all the best bits wandering in and out
of my smiles hidden fortresses.
Gaily whispering of the next dream
even before I finish this one.

Published by B

I am B (call me BB and I will gut you) I like daisies, books, and men who understand the wisdom of Kermit the Frog. I refer to my favorite person as TMW5T Why? because if he had 6 I'd call him TMW6T, duh!!

2 thoughts on “Crooked paint

  1. I like the contrast between your harsh self-judgment (“…sometimes squeaks like a rusty door on hinges”) and your ability to see beauty in others (“I watch the way the moonlight loves you”). But I don’t believe the very first line. I think you notice everything.

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