AlL around me i see people
with painted faces
and glIttering clothing trying
much too hard to be
perfect.
but whAt they don't know is that I can see the
cRacks
creeping ever so slowly
across their whitewashed
porcelain
faceS.

There is a work of art in the proportions of your body; a song in the rhythms of your movements. You can't see it, I know you don't believe me, but you are the most extraordinary creature I have ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with. If I were able, I would show you the beauty in your shoulder length auburn hair, and how it flows over your shoulders like a waterfall of silk. I would show you the steely grace in the strong chords of your neck as they ***** downwards into your perfect breast, and laugh when you protest that it might be compared to that of a twelve-year-old boy. I would show you the delicate loveliness of the lines creased deep in your palms, like a map of all that you have touched or felt in the years leading up to this moment; lines that I would follow to the ends of eternity, if only you would allow it. If I were able, I would study you. I would take notes with my fingertips on the tender skin of your spine and pay a kiss to each vertebra, like a tariff to a toll booth on the road of your body. If you would let me learn you, I would be the most studious attentive student there ever was; keen and detailed when practicing my new-found knowledge. Yet somehow, you are blind to this. But oh how I long to show it to you. Oh how I long to show you all the ways in which I want you. All the ways in which I wish you were mine. You cannot see your own perfection, listening more to the voices of doubt and insecurity more than to those of love and self-confidence, but oh how I wish you could see yourself in all the ways I do. And someday, I will make you see it. This, I promise.