Melitta Baumeister by Paul Jung
Your lips don’t care about the sulfur on my face.
Nor do your hands mind my ugly panties on laundry days.
Your fingers don’t care about the strands atop my head smothered in grease.
Nor do your eyes cease to sparkle at my mouth corked full of ravioli.
When I look tired you proclaim I bear the appeal of a child.
When I am too lazy to be manicured, you reveal that I appear French.
You will kiss me after I vomit.
You will kiss me after I apply lipstick.
You will always kiss me.
That is why you are a good man.
And when you stare at me hard as a rock, unreadable as a foreign language,
I say, “What?!”
And you say, “Can’t I just look at you?”
That is why I love you.