If you want to know why I don’t want to kiss you it’s because of your beard.
In its shady growth, my love for you is growing moss.
Your jaw-line is lost, your cheeks are inflated, your eyes and nose look too small.
Kissing your face makes me think about kissing a vagina,
which reminds me of your ex-wife and her female lover.
At the beach with your boys she embarrasses all of us with the display
of large brown tufts of hair protruding from the edges of her bikini.
And I feel guilty because I used to love another bearded man
who wore his well, thick hairs straight and evenly trimmed, to give the illusion
that his mandibular features were stronger than they actually are. It worked for him,
the look was distinguished, the hair a striking burnt red.
I worry you’ll catch me averting my gaze as your face approaches mine.
I wonder while looking at you if our species
will last long enough to evolve beyond the dilemma
of secondary sexual characteristics.
I want order from chaos, I want lines and form,
and the precise angles of your face, the art of your bones to satisfy my eyes,
and a way for the naked skin of my palms to study the symmetry of your face.
Image By: Sean Winters