She knows I’m beautiful now.
Well, becoming more beautiful.
Though she doesn’t care anymore.
She let that kind of feeling go.
But she knows I’m having that
look these days
that others see and think
I’m a delight to look at and experience.
I might bring lust into a room.
There could be lust.
She could see my dark eyes
and my long eyelashes drawn across
the suspended air in stillness, calling
something sultry and sensual,
that dark hair majesty,
there with my cheekbones,
drawing my naughty eyes out
and shining on the naughty thoughts
of other women I see. Who go thinking.
They see me.
I’m seen.
I’m out.
It’s becoming and uncoming
in very much a way it never has before.
She knows I’m beautiful now.
But she doesn’t care anymore.
She can’t.
It would stop her world
and the kind of afternoons
she needs with herself.
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