I had spent a long time with the ideal and it’s counterfeit grief,
had watched it culminate,
had watched my long, provocative, sharp, red nails,
tap on tabletops continually.

But this is what I saw of you:
As you went down to sleep, I saw a left arm swing heavily,
a heavy weighted, burdensome, lumbering,
sack of thick skin,
swing and sink into a white, pink,
flowery, dimly lit bed spread,

and your breasts, tug at the seam,
of a white shelled blouse, lighting you skillfully,
rising up to two dark pools, laminated and encased with a heavy glaze,
assassinating counterfeit remorse,

unveiling an astounded me,

after hearing you, as spring,
bright-eyed, clean handed, pure and white,
with long, tossing honey waves,

bare your teeth,

and hover over your hands,
in celebration.
- Colette Stone

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