Perhaps he doesn't see it
but there is a beauty to him
and I have been lucky enough to catch it in my hands
and claim it for my own
before any of the other girls have.
This beauty burns brilliantly in his smile
and in the way he gently laughs,
how his eyes soften as his lips curve
so that inside me, I am whispering, "Do it again."
There is the low murmuring of his voice,
unheard to others but heard to me,
and its beauty is in the way it tickles my ears
and travels down to the bottoms of my feet,
makes me crave and suspire.
I have seen beauty in the way his eyes twinkle,
whether in light or shade;
and they have, many times, drawn in my awed, steady gaze
as he sits unaware of his charm and allure.
His hair, too, is a messy nest of beauty;
how often have I let my fingers run through it,
its texture and curls that, to me, are perfection,
and are a symbol of the young man that I love.
There is beauty in the lips from which he says, "I love you"
and the arms that caress me in an embrace,
fingers that touch my cheeks
and intertwine themselves when he holds my hand.
How blessed am I that his beauty is also mine.