All that you are

You are all quartz. Fine-tuned. Orderly. Seconds moving together in perfect synchronicity, soldiers marching in impeccably polished boots. In line. In sync. Harmonized.  A smooth casing of steel and mahogany closing over the tiniest movements, ticking away with unbelievable precision. You are all quartz.  State of the art. Masterpiece. A living legend- not sagging canvas dripping with the wan smiles of no-name ladies, but the canvas itself. And the paint, and the painter’s fingers, and the reason why the painter even paints at all. Not the girl next door- but every muse ever known to every creative mind. Perfection in repose. The silky fur of a lynx reflecting the light right before the attack. Calculated movements, painstakingly orchestrated to produce a show-stopping outcome. Not wanton, open-mouthed beauty-  but restrained  and measured out carefully, like teaspoons of precious nectar. Savor the taste; this is a never again in your lifetime opportunity.

You are all messy. Stressed out. Stressful. Traffic jams in rainy season, and tires digging themselves deeper into the muddy streets with every stubborn revolution. Constant disarray. Braids escaping from the confines of an elastic band, loose threads that unravel scarves if pulled too hard and too long. Top buttons left open accidentally? On purpose. You are all chaos. Short fuse- woman, why do you have to be so irrational? Tear-stained pillows. Not designer tears- the kind that run in perfect mascara tainted rivulets down a carefully made up face, before landing with a resigned splash in a martini glass. Real life tears, the ones that are painful, that bore into your flesh on the way down, leaving soul-deep marks of regret and bitterness, tattooing your skin with incomplete farewells and insults that should never have come from a mother’s lips. You are all too much. Feeling life in at least six dimensions, not including the ones your imagination is yet to conjure. You are all too much. Too fat. Too tall. Too selfish. Too slow. Too hard-headed. Too easy. Too holier than thou. Too beautiful even. How dare you? I think you need to tone it down a little. Maybe next time don’t give someone a taste just because they ask.

You are all quartz set in a bed of wilting morning glories. Not diamonds, but coal dust. The dust on the miner’s fingers, and behind his ears, and inside his eyes. In fact, you are the reason the mine was built in the first place. You are all so much more. More than tired images of perfect imperfections, top 40 songs whining about your dimples and freckles; look at this pageant queen with hurt in her eyes. You are all more than all that expired rhetoric. Consider this more than a gift, or a holiday greeting compressed into a meaningless package with a red bow on top. This is a burnt offering at the altar of your being, this is a plea to be let in before the gates clang shut, this is my song for you, this is the motivation to open a few more buttons, or cover your head, or pray even harder, or eat that last piece- go on- you’ve had a long week and I know you’ve been craving these forever, or spread your legs on the train- after all those thighs could also do with some ventilation, sorry if you can’t cross your legs, I can’t either, I have too much lady in the way to pay any attention to your complaints.

If you think this is about you, then it most definitely is. This one is for you. I love you.

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