The Dent Beneath His Eye

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The morning I noticed
The little dent
Beneath his eyes,
I was sunk.

Some remnant from childhood,
A tree poorly climbed,
A baseball bat swung,
Not ducking quickly enough,
Or a chicken pox wound
He couldn’t help but pick.
Either way,
It was curtains for me.

Love is not
Cleanly shaven days,
Sneaking off in the early morning
To swish mouthwash
Before crawling back to the sheets.
Love is not
Even feeling his broad strokes,
The curvature of his shoulders
And thighs
My messy hair being run through
His perfect fingers.

It is
Anxiously bitten thumbnails,
Tricycle crash scars,
Dark shadows under eyes,
Unwashed hair and morning breath.
Unfiltered,
Uncensored,
As if we are finally,
Vibrantly,
Messily alive.

A birthmark on my leg
Waits for someone to
Fall in love with it.
So much,
That he folds,
He forfeits the game
Entirely.
Like the morning
I saw the dent
Beneath his eyes.

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