11 September 2010

Misplaced Freckle

He thinks he's flat, static, and transparent. But I am confused by his flecked, blue eyes, his fickleness in his twitching precisely as he slips into dreaming, the emotion in his confident dazes where he sees no one, lost in his thoughts; he ignores even my hand waving in front of those same flecked eyes. He's surprised when I ask him what he means by that phrase, his half laugh, or his corner smile. It means what it means, he says. Nothing else. Where's the deception? In the cowlick on the crown of his head and the misplaced freckle on the bridge of his nose. I could swear it was there yesterday.