He is a sunset. His face is darker than the rest of him. My mother tells me he’s skinny and his baggy clothes are an illusion. He kisses my forehead, blows raspberries on my belly. He’s never been without a beard, not in my lifetime, and his forehead kiss comes with a wonderful itch. His hair came down like vines (like mine). His hair came down like rope and if I wanted, I could climb them. I never had to, because he would come down, or lift me up. When he cuts them, his vines, his ropes, I knew something was lost. I could not climb to see him. The option was gone to me and so was he. Now I’m older, my ropes are long enough for the both of us. My friends swoon. He’s so this and so that, thins I understand in theory I suppose. I see him with the eyes he gave me. They tell me he so tall and strong, oh look at his smile, oh do you hear his accent? Stars in their eyes like he’s the perfect man. As if he didn’t beg me to never find a man like him.