This is a picture, not a pigture—
a face assembled from small decisions of light,
mustache like a quiet check mark on the day.

Your hand rests on the chest as if tuning a radio;
somewhere between collarbone and breath
a station named Sincerity FM clicks in.

Green thinks out loud across the shoulders,
blue keeps shade where doubts would be,
amber walks the room with soft boots.

Hypothesis: gratitude wears fingerprints.
Counter-hypothesis: it wears wind.
Synthesis: it wears both—yours.

Lines scaffold the smile,
eyes hold two pocket lanterns,
and the background—striped cathedral of color—
rings once, gently, as you say yes to being here.