What I Didn't Say

There's an eyelash on your cheek

and I don't tell you.

It catches the light slightly,

dark against your skin,

and I watch it instead of watching your mouth

when you talk about your week,

instead of watching your eyes

when you laugh.

I could reach over.

I could brush it away.

I could say: you have something,

and be the kind of person

who helps fix small things.

But I don't.

I let it stay.

It's become a secret between us,

this tiny imperfection,

this thing only I know about,

this moment where I'm keeping score

of what you don't see about yourself,

what I see and don't tell.

It feels like power, a little bit.

It feels like knowing something.

The eyelash never falls.

It just sits there on your cheek

while you talk to me

about everything else,

while you have no idea

that I'm here and I'm keeping

this small fact of you to myself.

At the end of the night

you'll go home

and eventually wash your face

and the eyelash will fall.

But right now

it's still there,

and I'm still watching,

and I'm still not saying anything.