In her own eyes she wasn't pretty,

She wasn't beautiful

But her body was a canvas

And all her imperfections,

Just brush strokes,

Light and delicate,

Perfectly put together

To form a carefree work of art.

But that wasn't what he loved,

no.

He didn't love just the picture

outside.

He loved the imperfect person inside

The happiness behind each smile,

The joy in her eyes,

And the warmth her laugh

Brought to each day.

He loved her,

And oh, did she love him.