When you talk about her, I get
an etching of what I believe to be
her face, blasted onto my eyelids,
a kaleidoscope of color
that could brand patterns into glass.
Sometimes she is blonde, other times
brunette, but she is invariably dainty
and always much prettier than you think I am.

She must fit into you with smooth joints
and smoother words, the places where
I was all angles and stutters. She is
milk and butter and cream, soothing an ache
I pray I may have left in your stomach.