Brown honey eyes look back
to my own, every night, at night:
Something to expect from a bee
charmer. Long lashes like feather
on masquerade masks without
glitter and shine, jump to the bones
of your thick skinned cheeks.
I love when those feathers
skim the apples on my face.
Your beaten hands and senseless
palms that touch the silk in mine
are not Beautiful, but are unmatched
to your untouched counterpart.
Your crumpled jeans, inside-out
on my floor, near the bed, pour
out dirt when I lift them
at the loops. They’re unlike the soul
under the denim that emits porcelain
shells and fragile marble and stone.