A Crow and Its Feet
They're sitting on the prettiest eyes.
You didn't have me at hello. Your first word to me was sour, it was expired milk. At best it was notebook paper, it was day old soda. Flat. There was nothing at all spectacular about you, but I tripped over something, distracted by the complete ordinariness of you, and you smiled. Lips pecked at by the wind, teeth crooked, uneven as tree rings. Eyes as clear and bright as freshly-dropped dew, wrinkled at the corners, crow's feet like stamps on skin. Your smile opened up a sinkhole that I fell into. I'll greet the Chinamen for you, and goodbye.