I tell you you’re pretty because you are. But women today, they want to be more than pretty. They compromise nothing. And they are pretty because of it. You shapely creatures with soft skin and delicate inner thighs, and the way you whistle as you breathe, and chew on pens, and recite fragmented essays written by other women in the eighties. And when you have wine you get smarter and you speak like the whole world is listening, because it is.
There is something timeless in the balance of your stare. And I get to thinking this afternoon will never end. And I follow you to sea walls and through a winter forest, brambly and bare. I am thinking you are like no one I’ve ever met and that I’d like to be that sweater curled around your neck and the coat you leave lying on the beach. And I am thinking we could be anything if we weren’t us. There’s something haunting about the things that never were and never will be. Like they can live right along side all of the pieces that are.