I am sorry.
I am trying.
I know how frustrating it must be
or, I think I can imagine.
It’s not a problem
I’ve ever had myself.

I have never known
anyone to look at me
and consistently see magic and mystery
and music and beauty
all at once.
I have never been told
that the view of me
or the thought of me
create spells and swirls
so that other things fade.

For me
it is impossible to behold you
and not see the lights
that always ensorcel.
It’s not your doing, I know.
You’re unaware,
are as much a victim of their effect as I.
But the lights around you
make it difficult to view your features
as anything other than amazing.

I am trying to see you objectively,
I swear.
I strive to see you
through the piss-colored glasses
that temper the rest of my reality
but something about you
makes it so far futile.