What to do with a beautiful thing

Nobody speaks of the woman so beautiful the sight of her brings tears to men’s eyes.
Nobody speaks of her anymore; the woman with hair like the monsoon; her lips like ripe figs left too long on the vine.

Nobody says a thing tonight of her walking the streets in red, a blur of a heart wound.
A clotting of beauty there are no invented words for.

On the walls by the canal they write her name inside heart shapes that melt in the rain.
When they speak of her, the sound dies out in their throats before it ever meets the tongue.

To the world I say, preserve yourself. Don’t barter your respect for love. Still your heart.
To her, I know I would say yes. A thousand times, yes.

It hurts everywhere I can’t touch her. I swear some days it feels like my insides are fighting to get outside my ribs so they can be closer to her.

When she left town, even the living room clock stopped.
Sometimes, all you can do with a beautiful thing is wait for it to be over.

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