My arms.
I see two stuffed sausages waiting to burst at the seams.
You see the arms that wrapped around you
the day you lost Ben.

My hands.
Dry and small, like Forget-Me-Nots wilting in the winter frost.
You see the hands that helped to discover
our secret handshake.

My hair.
A messy nest unfit for robins.
You see the loose locks that you sweep
behind my ears to free my face.

My cheeks.
Prone to red bumps like a ripe raspberry.
You see the opportunity for your lips
to softly trace my uneven skin.

My thighs.
The worst part of me.
With stretch marks carved deeper than the Grand Canyon.
You see the legs that intertwined with yours for
warmth, while our minds slowly fade to
delicious dreams of the future.

Who knew all the bad parts of me,
were my favorite parts of you.