Oh God, yes, you are perfect.
You dance as if the floor is made of pins,
like you are an ocean’s wave, or a river,
flowing over rocks, delicately tracing the sand.

By far, you are the prettiest.
Doe-eyed, bright-eyed, misty-eyed
Dull-eyed, more like, your wit dimmer than mine
You are innocent, with unflawed skin and unbroken smile.

Of course, you are the kindest.
You never scold or yell or tell a bad joke,
much unlike me, who the winter’s cold has frozen over.
I am a wasteland, and you are thawed, ready for life.

And you are new, a flower untouched,
not wilting with petals falling off, your stem
has not yet been picked. You are a shirt not worn,
no holes in you. You flirt with a fresh laugh.

And I am a green-eyed monster;
I am a ragcloth, old jeans with holes in the knees
patched over three times, with jokes that have rotted
like an already carved out pumpkin.

I will not last until springtime, or until the end of winter.
My perfection is gone, and the translucent glow he once
painted around me has now been painted around you.
No, I will not last until the end of winter, but someday, neither will you.