when we will meet
When we will meet,
surely nose to chin,
where my bridge meets your jaw’s slope —
lips soft between ridge.
You will furrow your brow,
deep lines run parallel
with the thought of my heart —
held high across your forehead.
That tremor along your chin,
a permanent response.
My left brow up, right brow down:
she bows and lowers — lower, and lower.
When we will meet,
and press deep across face,
I whisper to you:
the lines that I choose — those lines that we choose.
You know of your choice,
but if handpicked, I’d grow
crow’s feet — eyes that crinkle and crease.
With ravines that reach, from my cheeks to you.
xoxo, anna