Your face is stupid,
I retort, hiding behind my own face,
trusting it to relinquish hold on my emotions.
Because someplace small, someplace dark,
I know that nothing could be further from the truth,
I know that your face, in fact,
is perfect.
Perfect not in the Italian supermodel sense,
but in that awkward high school way
which translates to a higher beauty in my mind,
because it is so painfully, realistically,
real.
Nothing about it is superficial, no makeup to
cower behind.
Your face seems to be saying "hey, here I am, you can
love me or leave me."
And mine longs to say back "yes! I love you so
come with me and stay with me,
caution to the wind, let's go right now,
...please?"
But the barrier stands, and these words only escape
to paper.
