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
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. 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.

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