She says “Am I beautiful? They say I have an imbalance in my brain, it’s pharmaceutical.”
“My dear, I say, “you are so much more than the usual. Acoustical, like the music that fills my meaningless taste of a cubical.
You add the light to the black and white eyesight without you. You are as meaningful as the graphite writing this poem, lonesome and I’ve known some who will not understand, my dear, so I’ll try and loan some insight to them
rewrite a simply absurd definition.
Depression.
Unaware of your lovely composition, as dramatic as nuclear fission.
When you began to show a mathematician, the calculation of you.
Look to the stardust from the unjust numbers written across our faces
They find traces of the moon, perhaps a tablespoon of argon
The psychic phenomenon embedded in my Canon when I take pictures of the fibers of your satin
Spun in the most lovely of colors.
You are beautiful.” I say