The Face

If you share the correct OTP,
a face will be delivered to your doorstep.

This face is a plateau — a cumulation
of lakes darkened by screen time;

miles of Instagram glide
over beginnings of a body, body of a land —

lands that burst into buildings
like pimples on greasy skin.

This face carries Yesterday.
It does not rise to blue-ticked rebellions,

neither does it believe in television.
The nose never questions foul air,

chin— immersed in stoic obligations.
The neck is perched on familiar apps —

to order food, medicines
and even drink water.

Cold, sweet skin — carrier of carnal men,
it has never mistaken the rope for a snake.

This face will not launch a thousand ships.
It is anchored in the routine

of the one who adds salt to tea,
forgets the phone in the refrigerator.

The face has endured neglect—
itchy days without tenderness;

and now it only wants a bean bag
to watch the world —

cool and still,
chilled like beer on a hot afternoon.