Too often careless words of love and assurance slip through lovers’ lips.
Trembling and flushed, able bodies twist to shield their scarred skin,
whispering over and over again,
My beauty. My beauty. My wonderful love.
Desperate lovers that so recklessly have forgotten
that words of love are black canvases.
Beauty is the curve of her hip as his fingers trace the contours of her skin.
Beauty is the unblemished skin on his neck, begging for her touch.
She is beautiful in her strength and hope, laced in her every atom.
He is beautiful in his admiration and inspiration, giving him life.
Misguided lovers, the word “beautiful” by itself is empty. Fill it with color and life. Gently whisper your praises or bellow them into the warm afternoon air. Proclaim your love with vibrant passion, emanating from every touch and kiss. Do not use “beauty” and “love” carefully; release them recklessly and overflowing with audacious devotion. Mold the words to fit your lovers, sheltering them from the hatred and the pain- until there is no doubt of that beauty or love.