I could write an epic about your lips.
The way they puckered into a kiss before you could even speak, like you knew that love came first-before speech.
The way they glistened in the sun that summer I taught you how to swim and you went under for longer then I care to admit. Your tears slicking the surface of the quiver.
The way they snarled, contorted the whole right side of your mouth into disapproval when I pressed my hands against your small back and propelled you into Kindergarten, where you discovered that no, your teacher wouldn’t let you break out into spontaneous dance, or draw little purple houses on the backs of your hands.
The way they say “Mommy,” like you were always meant to say it to me.
The way the bottom tucks itself up under your front tooth when you’re damming up a river of sobs with the cotton of your interior.
The way they still pucker into a kiss for anyone who will have your kindness.
The way they soften, when the rest of the world is hard.