When you’re alone you start to sing little songs
mashed together in your head from the years,
dance behind closed curtains because you’re
embarrassed by your popstar moments in the mirror.
But your voice replays in my dreams each night
no matter how bad you may think it sounds.
You’ll pick out your pimples and cover them with
that brown eyeliner you think looks more natural.
We could always agree on our love for the freckles
and moles that paints your skin in constellations.
And there is something about the striped
patterns of the flesh on your thighs and hips,
and society may tell you they’re too small
but I think they fit perfectly within my hands.
And maybe you regret shaving your head last summer
but at the time your smile fought off every school bully.
I know every time you look at your legs all you
can see are the splotches of yellow and dots of red,
but I see hibiscus and chrysanthemums dancing
up your calves and thighs worthy of a Monet.
And in fifty years it will be your art on every street
corner and face on every screen as you tell them about
dancing, with the curtains pulled open for every
passing car, to all the little songs in your head.