Bent

Foreign bodies in the turbulent air adhere
to the light fixtures, and to the ends of your
lashes on your closed eyes.. The cloudy
blue of your irises, which are momentarily hidden
strike me as original, though
I've seen that color thousands of times.

You're new to me, made up of old, known things,
and you own them well, with care, and I am frozen
for lack of a better gesture.

You are funny sometimes, in your actions, and your
naïveté, but it doesn't matter.


Because I accept them as you must no doubt accept me.