lately I am interested in the language of faces:

starbursts of tiny lines at

the corners of bright eyes,

deep creases from nose to

the corners of wide mouths, reading

"I have lived and know

the secrets of the universe and

that we are for happiness, for weathering

storms just to breathe the clean air afterwards."

then there are the shallow ones left

from decades of putting a cigarette to your lips,

the ones that read "I have lived, and know

that there are vices worth the sacrifice,

even if they leave their own small marks;

that we deserve our own small indulgences

as long as we live well most of the time."

Some leave me wondering:

downward strokes leaving them looking

worn out, beaten,

like their faces fell with their hopes for the future;

deep grooves from the tear ducts on down,

carved deep by the weight of defeat;

parentheses turning the lower lip

into a stern reminder for the mirror:

"It's been a long, hard time of things."

Quietly, slowly, secretly,

my story is being sketched over my baby face-

a map drawn carefully

of where we've been.

"Moisturize! Scotch tape! Careful not to frown too much!"

say the magazines, "Watch out for those crow's feet, those wrinkles, those lines!"

What, and forget where I've been?

I can hardly wait to look in the mirror and say

"I have lived, and know these truths written right here on my face."