Those who know me don’t know me—but you, who don’t know me, do.
This is because you are beautiful. No one can insult me like you.
My father has a notion of me—distorted by the fact I’m his son.
You kiss me and treat me like a stranger—friendly until you are done.
I’m a child wanting its mother as you smile and say goodbye.
We are sophisticated—actually, you say nothing. And I don’t cry.
But later, when I read your texts, I do cry a little, it’s true.
This is because you are beautiful. No one can insult me like you.
You never intend to hurt me—a little bit, maybe, when you kid.
Your beauty destroys me, not you, surprised: “Gosh, look what I did!”
People do die of love. But the beautiful never know what they do.
This is because they are beautiful. No one can insult me like you.