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Freckles

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We spent our tenth year redrawing
each other’s faces.
I gave you the battle scar
that you always wanted,
and you graced me with
a sophisticated smirk.
And while you looked rugged
and adventurous
(quite like a pirate in my eyes),
I was the picture
of culture and elegance.

When November rains
and third grade tears,
washed our marks away,
we redrew them in the
shelter of Nana’s cherry tree.
I smeared your lips with
berry juice and dotted your
face with Sharpie freckles.
In return you scribbled
my skin a few shades
darker, my cheeks burnt
raw with pencil and
orange with blush.
And then you kissed me
with your sticky lips,
to leave a tattoo, you said,
right on my chin.
And you giggled,
so I giggled too,
and I wanted to draw
a heart, so big and red and full,
right on your tummy.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I bent forward,
and drew you a goatee,
because it was wintertime,
and I didn’t want you to get cold.





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