It is thick, thick,
then narrow,
then thicker.
A full-grown,
deep-angled,
tricky, wild,
steep stairwell
leading down
from floor two,
your ear,
stepping
all the way
to your jawline,
the landing.
Flatly, no,
shockingly,
it ends.
But in the white
space between
your hair
and cheek,
my finger becomes
the imaginary
razor, testing
the shaved line,
lingering
on the edge,
feeling the way
your smooth, hot,
strange skin
so easily leads
back into the hall,
back into the rough.
C.A. MacConnell
