Marked Spots and Miscounted Moments

Sunlight catches her cheek,

a stubborn little freckle perched

like a secret no one asked for.

I tried once to count mine, you know?

Stopped halfway—lost track like bad math,

frustrated with their wild, messy scatter

that refused neat lines or sense.

That freckle, neither hidden nor bold,

sits stubborn on skin’s uneven map,

proof that not everything fits tidy boxes,

that some things just are,

marked spots in an uneven world,

moments too small to make perfect sense,

but too real to look away.