Wandering, her hand reached
Desperate to grab the unattainable
She groped in her pockets
The rough, worn fabric producing nothingness
Her fingers found air; she sighed
The pockets were empty
She loved the jeans
The comforting caress and warmth of artificial heat
A sufficient method of dress
But, Practicality reduces to meaninglessness
Only in the cold winters
did she feel their inadequacy
Their inability to withstand
The toil of daily dysfunctionality
Holes widened, tears appeared
The seams of seeming perfection
Unraveled
The jeans were unable
The mirror whispered the curses of the jeans
Too small, too short, too without
With every squirm and wiggle
The jeans shouted her imperfections
Crushing the dream of the idyllic pair
The ideal person
A pair of the sea's blue, a cloud's comfort, a sunset's beauty
And the girl, ragged and worn,
Fell to the floor
defeated
But, He stepped through the door
Picked up the jeans and tore them in two
Declaring them finished
Their superficiality is diminished
The imperfections unimportant
She stands triumphant
The jeans a mere corruption of the White Robes
An attempt to hide the flaws, the lacks
An empty hope of the greatest burden
The joy lies in the conclusion
In the destruction of the jeans, of the lies, of the weariness
Of the facade in a pair of perfection
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