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.