She is there to distract,
to stretch out relaxed
and be in fact
something that detracts
from the calming acts
of meditation.

She is not the elevation
of my being,
nor the spectacular apogee
becoming
the ****** of my life.

She is not perfect,
nor should she be,
nor is she
responsible for
completing me.

Though time may take
old lines and replace
them on her aging face
with strange wrinkles,
and body parts will sag,
and heartbeats will lag
till mortality steals
all that we are,
emotions and will.

She is not the best
or worse of anything.
She merely exists,
passing complexity
temporary curiosity
that will not sate
or devour me completely
no matter how pretty
she may be.