That one tooth, the one that slightly crosses over the other,
that’s what keeps my head in your lap, looking up as you speak
with animated expressions
and drawn out syllables.
Like the inginuitive branch of a tree,
it offers something unique, something undeniably
It exudes a youness that is unmistakeable
among dopplegangers and mirrored images,
or figures matching movements, following footsteps,
conspicuously counting the flaws on faces to ensure that we are all the same.
But not you.
That one tooth is illuminated by ceiling lights
when you turn your face away from me
in contentment or frustation,
when you chuckle at my own confusion or