It’s your flaws I want to taste. Your crooked mouth. The

It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after being out all day.
Your knees, so eager to bend

to whatever song is playing in
your head.
Your chest, as it rises and falls
rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
tangled hair.
Your “good morning,”
every morning.
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
perfections.

I want to talk about you.
Flawed. Crooked.
Endlessly
interesting.
You.

 ♡♡♡