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the kind of luck

 

not again, please..
not again.

every time I watch
a love story unfold,
on screen, in ink,
in the glow of moving frames,
beyond the moral stitched between scenes,
i wonder.

how is it
that every girl there
is a universe of perfection?
each one
already paired with a man
who speaks her storms,
who reads her silence,
who waits at the edge of her shadows
with a lantern in hand?

i mean,
not every girl has that kind of luck.
the kind where kindness is constant,
where someone stays, not because she’s flawless,
nobody is,
but because
he chooses her
in every imperfect moment,
no matter what comes.

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