Your beauty drowns the room in brilliant light,
Dazzling, like some holy aureole,
And standing there, bedecked in virgin white,
You leave us breathless, robbed of hyperbole.
O glistening object of our jealous praise,
Your polished sheen is gleaming, shiny proof
Of maintenance regimes that fill your days
And husband-wardens of your diamond youth.
Perfection needs an intervening hand
Of course.  Perhaps you’ve had some (duller) parts
Augmented?  Trimmed?  Re-sculpted like Rodin?
Like touching up a fulgent work of art?
And your aurora, does it never dim?
Desire, still fiery as our nearest star?
Or are you searching for another him?
Perhaps it feels a bit like au revoir?

Our ardent eyes advise a bright remark:
Your dress is white; your shadow, widow dark.