It’s not the honey color of her hair,
the forest green of her eyes,
or the olive tan of her skin.
It’s not because I adore the way her waist curves in before her hips,
or the small belly that pokes through her tighter shirts.
It’s not the way she takes her coffee,
or her love for Greek yogurt.
It’s not her ambitions,
dreams,
nightmares.
It’s not her mind,
her background,
or where she’s from.
It’s my ability to look at myself in the mirror
and love all of these things.