I quite love the way people seem.
In truth, I love it more than I could ever love the people themselves.
They’re simply knick-knacks to me,
Wonderful to look at and admire,
But lacking any true value or charm.
Surely, I love the way their eyes twinkle in the sun,
And their tongues brush their teeth when they talk,
And its all fine and amusing and well,
But that is all.
I don’t care to know their ugliness,
Unless they’ll let me romanticize that as well.
And they won’t,
They’ll be too ugly, too true,
So I may not even want to.
So I’ll observe from afar
And love them with no real context or substance.
They’re only beautiful until I know them,
And although that superficiality is not true beauty,
It is all I seek--
After all, nobody cares what art is made of
as long as they like the way it looks through their cloudy lens.