Your face is like magical strings pulling on the corners of my mouth.

At times you resemble the ground but mostly you're like the sky.
The sun, the stars.
The pinkish orange clouds in the late afternoon.

Not to say that the ground isnt sometimes pretty too with its great theatre of shadows, or a tear mudding up the otherwise perfect field of dust.

There isn't one without the other. The two states complete themselves.
In fluid motion they change and weather into each other.

And my corners follow.
They're always there.