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Poem

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.

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