I trickle down your cheek...

I trickle down your cheek like a tear.
First in the wrinkles of your eyes,
made not from anger or confusion,
but from laughter and solution.
I magnify each freckle,
but I stop and take my time,
laying quite simple,
in that cute dark curve
that is your dimple.


I cool the red-rose cheeks
of your embarrassment.
Until I fall from your chin,
not stuck up but held high still.

But now I lie on the table top
or the paper page of a sad novel
that you hated reading,
but still felt guilty when you finished,
hoping you could turn at least
one more page, one more insight,
one more seemingly-understanding-statement
from an author you've never met,
nor heard of, but somehow relate to.

I seep into its yellow paper
weakening its reserve, but
strengthening yours.

Or perhaps I am hugged
into some sweater's sleeve
that you are wearing.
You wipe me away in shame,
I do not feel offended, I assure you,
I would have done the same,
if I was alone.
But I am cozy inside this argyle stitch,
that comfortable cotton
without scratch or itch.
That cookie warm feeling
of being home.