Send me a picture of you

"Send me a picture of you."

And my cheekbones swell,
pressing forward like figs in late summer,
skin taut, flushed at the seams.

"Send me a picture of you."
And the corners of my mouth
Pull themselves wide,
a careful, weightless crescent—
waxing, waiting.

"Send me a picture of you."
And my eyes move over the screen,
measuring light, shadow,
the right degree of knowing.

Pressed send on all of them.

Except, of course,

the ones that wouldn’t do.
Kept the tilt of the head,
the practiced gaze,
the softness borrowed
from someone else.

I have a right to it, too.

But I don’t let go of it. I keep it,

carry it with me—

to the café, the grocery store.

Even in bed, I hold it close.

Take pictures of it and 

hang them on the wall.

I look up at them, 

Every time he asks for more.