The Nose Goes

It starts from the middle of my face, right between my eyes. It follows a straight path of freckles, like a car following the median on the road. Then, it swerves, slightly to the left, drifting gently into my upper lip. From the side it protrudes out gracefully, bending to the curves of space and time. But from underneath, it is a monster, staring with two hideous holes for eyes. My nose is covered in small sun spots; little gifts the sun gave me on a summer day when my mother forgot the sunscreen. Some days are more crooked then others. When I wake up early my nose always looks like it shifted. As though it tried to stay in bed while the rest of my face got up. I like my nose. It's never runny, and has a habit of rejecting bad odors. Often times I wonder about a world without noses. A "nose-free" world. Would we still smell? Or would we just have a giant space of flesh, a canvass, waiting to be painted upon.