Beauty, Like Most Things, Is Subjective

Beauty, like most things, is subjective Some people prefer a statue, marble, Crafted at the enervation of the sculptor. Others prefer smoke, thin and intangible, Dancing in plumes to an atonal rhythm. Call me crazy, but I prefer neither. I admire you in your skin in clothes Shorts and a tank-top, as you move So exotically your hips to a drum in time. However I don't find beauty in arousal, Yet in a connection seen in eyes, Held in hands, and know, I find Large amounts of beauty in you I could sit with you and die. As we all do now, sad and alone, yet As soon as proximity is reached Between us, dying becomes more. It becomes the tobacco between The fire at a cigarettes tip, And the filter, that sweet sin That has so enticed you before. However, that's just me, As beauty is subjective.