You’re beautiful
Not like a star, who are never unique
Or a cloud, an epitome of glorious
They’re utterly unreachable and solitary

Because I can run my hands
Through you and with you
And clouds are much too high
Clouds break at my touch

You’re like grass, soft and
Making my skin itch, yet still
I crave mine against yours
We met as I lay barefoot on you

But like grass you turn gray in winter
And I guess everyone is allowed to.
Be gray, I mean. I can curl and wait
For spring, like hibernation; lonely

Being lonely is beautiful, in a way.
It lets you think and play with the
Polish chipping from your finger nails
As I paint them green you regrow

But you’re still not a cloud, but I guess
You’ll do, and I can lay in you as we
Pretend the really pretty people are
Animals and balloons and imaginaries

I’m beautiful
But not like a cloud, and not like grass
Or even a star, which is unremarkable
Until it dies and brings down the galaxy