Wet-face.

It's not raining.

But my face's getting as wet as the sky. Not the humid stifling wet that accumulates on your windows and runs in insincere tears; not even the dry wet you get clinging to the tip of your nose one snowy day; but the afterglow wet of a rainy sky. The wet that breathes life.

The clouds are falling apart in the sky and the day is so happy right now you'd see it dance, holding a face-splitting smile.
But that's not why my face is getting wet.

The ground is soaked with green and blue and bright colors threaded and tangled into the grass. My baby daughter spilled all her paints earlier. Well, she's not a baby really. She's two and a half years old with chubby legs and tender arms glazed with strawberrysoda-red; with little darkening crystal-like bubbles along the lithe creases of her wrists and soft knuckles.

She had her dirty little lips spread out in a smile as big as the day's as she ran around with faint-lash-rimmed eyes crinkled from the sun's insistent glow.
Suddenly my face got hotter and my breaths ran out faster, scrambling, but all that heat and air didn't dry off the wetness as I ran away from her dirty smile and soft hands.

I ran away from my dirty baby who clung to the ground making colorful mudpies , gurgling my name and hers. I couldn't hear anything but my strained muffled breaths as I blocked away my eyes and my mouth feeling saliva and mucus clash at the tips of my fingers.
And I kept running from my dirty baby; my guts' shame. The pretty shame I'm leaving behind for someone else to care for. I'm leaving her for the sun's loving heart; the sun's unending pursuit of giving warmth to everyone. Hopefully the sun has enough heart for my baby.

And.

My face is still not dry yet, as I recall my baby's gurgling sounds and twisted slurred letters, spread across the earth with her fingers tangled in the azure blue soil, drawing a messy grass sky tainted with rock stars.