Tell me again about the time when skin went nude.
Our pores, satisfied with 80 degree sunshine and drowning in its glory.
I’d be peeling, and you’d know that I’d lived summer.
Or on darker days, I’d greet you with a dampened face, without the burden of
having to worry about the masterpiece I’d created in the morning with my less than able judgment.
A mosaic collage of colors that don’t quite go together.
If you squinted, and looked closely at my right temple, you’d see the faded scars that are my story.
And you wouldn’t ask because you knew.
That when as a child, I’d played with wooden dolls.
And I’d carved their faces to my version of beautiful.
Tell me again about the time when in my presence, your senses didn’t lie.
How when you touched and saw my skin,
you’d ask me where I’d kept my father’s carver.