I’m not charmed by your silky chinos
Or the labels embodied
But the legs beneath them
The welts they endured
From your childhood trickeries
Of sliding slopes through craggy territory
Your legs, they tell your story

I’m not charmed by your gold drenched fixtures
Of the diamonds entrenched
But the hands coated by them
The grime you frayed to find yourself
Blistered from the climb, cut from the battle
A postcard perfect premonition you vow to deserve
Your hands, they tell your story

I’m not charmed by crisp free chemise
Or the shiny brooches heaved
But the layer of flesh around
The vase and holster for one’s heart
A heart once broken, battered and belonged
Now restoring itself in seclusion
Your soul, it tells your story.