What’s strange is how you can find any person beautiful the longer you look at them,
they don’t even have to be in the room
but if you’ve spent that time
if your eyes have met their eyes for patterns of seconds

then you can see their beauty,
that God-given spark inside, something aflame that doesn’t die,
it’s all alive and around their head like if they were on fire,
it’s blooming and contracting in their irises,
it’s eating away and building them up all at the same time,
that beauty.

Some of them, some of them have it more than others,
have it better, see.
Those ones, they blink at you and your lips fall right off your mouth,
your skin feels all warm and liquid like soft wax
and you know that if they touched you,
they’d leave a finger print.
They do and they do.
And you just sit there and stare at your arm,
wondering if that print will stay or if the sun will melt it back.
And it doesn’t, you’re touched.

and at night you push your pointer onto the spot where it’s indented,
trying to fill in the cracks with your own God-given ridges;
and it doesn’t quite fit and you don’t quite fit.

It’s just enough to drive a person mad.


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