You tell me every day, how my forehead is the skin you kiss to reassure me.
You say how it creases when I raise my eyebrows in question or confusion, and how it's covered by locks of hair that fall down my face. How it is the expanse of skin that hides all my thoughts, leaving only the certain to reveal; because in the end, you're always the one who can see right through me.
You tell me everyday how you could stare at the way I lay it in my palm, tired or stressed.
Oh, how you know me.