The Matrices Of Being Loved

Her mother never told her
she was pretty.

She is very pretty.
Shockingly in fact.
She drips beauty
from every moment of her body and breathing.
It falls onto the floor.
It goes into unknown shadows.
Her breaths are low.

Her mother was wrong.

This is a problem.

It’s an established matrix.

I’d like to fix it.

But I cannot.
Not in this capsule of time.

So we spend our days
looking at two different types of skies.

She has the prettiest blue eyes.
They’re undernurtured.
The dreams of a different kind of love
wait within.
A different kind of living.
A coastal mountain town compared
to New York City.

Something
she could have known before all this.
Something
I should have known before.

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