I am beautiful
She is beautiful

The irony then
when she can’t see her beauty
or mine,
Making my self-sight
lose its shine.

without it’s opposite–
perhaps compliment
is more appropriate–
it ceases to be.

For every man
there’s a woman.
A woman who can’t see
what she means to him.
Nor feel what she steals

His heart
and his mind,
which skips a beat
and wanders past the meat

To a place
Gleaming with her beauty
and mine, together:



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