You're not what I usually go for--
More of an Egon Schiele than a Courbet.
Idealized, but not realized, I implore
You to see yourself through my eyes one day.
In my eyes you are a goddess, a muse;
Dulcinea, admired from afar.
Lines and curves like a Pollock, if you choose
I would duel windmills and berate the stars.
Rubens' figures have been my preference,
Bug curvy hips and breasts; zaftig, but strong.
But to your slim form, I show deference.
Wherever you are is wherever I belong.
You may be like Don Quixote and art,
But I refuse to end this rhyme with heart.
Which you've stolen from me, by the way. So please remember that you're a gorgeous lady and not an emaciated child. If you lose 20 pounds, you will disappear and I am terrible at hide and seek.
No, really.
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