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That look in your eyes;

you stare back at me again,

thinking

how perfect I must be.

I stare back at you.

I wish that I could not feel

insecure 

whenever you praise

me.

I am nothing but

helpless

within your presence 

as you come to mind 

all my virtues. 

As others speak of me,

you cannot help but

encourage more out of them,

nourishing their ideas of

an epitome of perfection. 

You can't help but notice

the beauty I do not see,

the wisdom I do not hold, 

the strength I do not empower, 

the heart I do not have. 

You also can't help but 

adore 

my rosy cheeks. 

I do not wish to tell you

directly, my dear,

but perhaps in humility, you would have

disagreed if I told you

how perfect you are compared 

to me. 

How lucky you are to be 

blessed with the dreamfully, sweet gift

of eternal youth,

and in your memory

you shall not be forgotten. 

The little sparkle in your eyes,

that mischievous, impish grin,

the curves of a childish face, and

those faded, brown locks of yours

remind me of a future

I would have wanted,

and will always want.

In this sweet, sad melody

I sing for you,

and devote myself to a love

you would have desired;

pure, chaste, giving, and

sacrificing.

For you to look through

my golden eyes

will be my hopes

forlorn,

so you may see

what it's like to be

me looking back at

you.






3/11/11