Such a delicate specimen should not be as humble
As to refer to her own talents with such nonchalance.
As though they are none more passionate than that which
I had allowed to spiral out of control
And lead my mind to an early grave.

Such beautiful words must be just only reflected
By any mirror which she glances away from guiltily;
Or perhaps by the glass, having been shattered,
And having been spread along the path
From which she simply refuses to stray.

I have heard her stanzas; her lines; her words,
And yet isolated they lose their bite.
The truth she speaks is far more prominent than that of my own,
As though the words have been ripped from he mind and laid raw,
But far more artful and complex.

Her beauty I can not even begin to fathom
Although she speaks of it as though it is simplistic.
She calls herself a realist, but she's anything but real.
Not in my mind, at least - nothing so ideal could exist;
Nothing so worth living for could waste its time on me.

Every fault she has, every word she's spoken out of context;
Every word she has neglected to speak for lack of time;
Every sound she's suppressed for lack of understanding -
It's enchanting to me - much more enticing than it would be
Had she articulated it to perfection and engraved it on her skin.

Nothing I pile on paper could fully describe her -
Not my harsh words; not the dulled mutterings in my veins.
Credit could only be granted successfully by her own hand,
And yet she does not see it - she is blind to her own brilliance.
So perhaps my only purpose is to show it to her and make her understand.