She called me beautiful.
I don't think it's because she's in awe of me.
I think it's because she doesn't find me attractive
but refuses to hurt my feelings by saying so
so she sticks to a word that can be as ambiguous
as a deep breath before your first kiss.
There used to be a graying tower
where their cottage by the sea sits now.
They're waiting for the day the ship finally comes in,
the tears tearing its hull to bit after it's realized
the crew's families stopped on them years ago.
I used to love her,
but I learned a long time ago
that some things simply don't translate.
La Douleur Exquise
doesn't mean anything to her tongue but
I'm not good enough
is all I have
and it doesn't ever mean all that I need it to.
This language is beautiful,
but there are so many words confused in their meaning
and they're never what I need them to be
when I need them to be.
Some days, I wonder if I'll ever be good enough.