Spill me from naked fingers
blushing under the attentive
gaze of sun strokes,
that gift liver spots
and beauty marks
and freckles in equal measure.
Yesterday I was told that
having a small face was the
height of beauty
and with Socratic induction
informed, that in all my
foreign glory-
I fit the standard.
With each conversation
we weave ourselves together
crosshatch cacti longing
that prickles as it pines
for summer days spent shucking corn
and snapping peas-
I'll count the hours by your shadow.
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