To the women I like

You are the unopened present, gleaming
Beneath the tree.
Perfectly boxed and wrapped and bowed and gilded
Perfect in the possibility
Of what you could be.

To tear the paper
And crumple it in a ball
And know
What you are not

Moves my focus
To next year, less a moment
When another will sparkle before me
Perfect in possibility
Unmarred by my knowing
What's really inside