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Your skin is translucent, like fine china
I can see just far enough to discern your names,
To feel the spear-tip anger that built your fortress.

I wish I were prettier.

Not just better than the thieves and grifters
Bent on wasting touch and time, carving
A lingering scar in the Mona Lisa of your smile.

My most petulant chakras want to be
Another handsome drunken artist
But that foolish trade is done...
I am an antique, partially restored
By faith in the unrequited,
An irony neither lost nor disrespected
In this comet flight across the
Familiar orbit of your shining night.

It is only in the infinite
That transubstantiation calls
Us into being
Ever-choosing to accept
what is offered.
In deference and amazement
At miracles that look
Nothing like
What we wanted.