Beautiful Debt
Perhaps I see what I want to see.
Maybe something is beautiful because I deemed it so.
Or rather, I cannot pinpoint what stands out.
But why is it up to me for that decision?
How cruel.
Eyes fixated, hair shining through dazzling sunlight.
A pink dress tinged with white flowers,
sewn into patterns of sticks and branches.
Lipstick of red hues, or maybe, it was licorice black.
Too many choices to keep track of.
I don’t like to list options.
I speak of memories and experiences.
Brunettes, redheads, I can’t bear another thought.
A drawing board of dreams and fantasies,
I cannot stop thinking through obsessed observations.
Why must they all be so beautiful,
How can I convince myself that I am worthy?
Worthy of such intelligence, dignity, and affection.
I’m nothing more than a petty jester, a fool.
And yet they,
They are extraordinary.
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