Beautiful.
That's how I see you.
(it's the way you are too.)
I need not look at you when I want to see you
Or notice that you may be looking back (at me).
I almost despise your not-that-curious stare,
no reason other than the fact that you see nothing at all to justify it.
But beautiful - you are.
Pretty.
And all I want to do is look at you (without looking).
Just for a moment.
That static exchange of seconds that allows you to be the perfect little white canvas I can paint my own version of you on.
I can taste your sweet-sour presence a few miles away (so close)
I do not adore it.
Misunderstand me not.
I see the flaws and cuts and drops of golden poverty dancing around you.
But you do not wish to be saved (and I wish it too much, but not enough...)
Sometimes
In my redundant silence I crave for the will to whisper in your made-of-tissue-conscience just how incredibly beautiful you are from where I'm standing.
But you're just a painting.
A dead, hopeless, beautiful painting.
That moves without ever leaving the same place...