Moustache (Poem)

She put her thumb on my cheek
And with the part of her pointer finger
Between the first knuckle and the second
Knuckle
Gently rubbed just above the corner of my lip
It wasn't the only spot on my face that grew hair
But it was the only spot where the hair grew thick
My sideburns were fuzzy, caterpillar fuzz
But above the corner of my lip it was prickly like a man
Stiff, Itchy
When I shaved it it made that same scratchy noise that my Dad's used to make when I would lean my wet head against the white towel he had wrapped around his waist and watch him lean into the mirror and draw clean lines with his razor through the foam beard before rinsing it down the sink.

A seasoned painter pulling the green tape off of a freshly painted wall
Not slowly, not quickly.
Revealing steadily, a perfect edge.

Then he would pass me a red and blue toothbrush
He would stare at his reflection eye to eye
While I looked up to him
Mimicking his technique

I smiled
She smiled
I was looking in the mirror
She pinched my cheek
Pulled me in
Kissed me
One kiss
Not slowly
Not quickly
Firm
Pulled away steadily
Looked me in the eyes again
She smiled
I smiled

"I like your moustache"
We both laughed