when you are angry with me your face caves into furious hollows. there is one in the corner of your left eye, dark and defined, sharply. it reminds me of crevasses, on snowy peaks wreathed in clouds made of smoke and dreams, where men slip on treacherous ground and fall, to die and shatter. it reminds me of the bottom of the ocean.
under your lip there is another; you press your lips together and a tiny shadow forms underneath, gently rounded, as if weathered by the sea. it is there i am reaching for when i put my hands out to you, i would like to put my fingers on your mouth and whisper to you,
i would like to put the harsh creases in your forehead under my hands. i would like to run my fingers over you, feel the dark angry lines dissolve, soften, slowly, until you are perfect again. i would like to smooth away the hollows, like pockmarks or scars on your skin, until they melt back into the topography of your face and you are whole.