refined beauty turned wild,
like poetry, but too rough around the edges.
eyes like gemstones,
but not pearl,
or ruby,
or emerald,
but dark onyx,
precious only to those seeking the rare,
not the valuable.
but when the surface cracked
where golden sunlight should've shined through,
i found my fists full of broken pottery
instead of your hands.
and when the paint was scraped away,
i realized that you were just a boy
who liked watching sunsets,
not a masterpiece.