You scratch your beard when you don’t know what to say; the grit of the sound reminds me of kindling popping under flame. It crackles your skin with heat from your own fingertips and one side of your mouth will cave in a dimple like the gap a log leaves after falling into the fire. Has anyone ever mentioned to you how your eyes are the same color as the caramel we drizzle into coffee? Your lashes are blunt and dark like tiny spokes of a bicycle wheel and they run themselves in circles as you tap a drum solo on the tabletop and contemplate what to say next. I never quite catch what you say after those brief pauses: I am much too fond of how your voice trickles in like the left hand keys on a piano and the way you fiddle with your upper lip as if you just remembered it was there.
Copyright © 2016 Pearl Bayou