I have baptized myself by immersion of studying your photograph, examining as each constituent lives under my scrutiny. I have been waiting for my brain to acknowledge the imperfections on the details of your physicality and introduce itself to your blemished deficiencies.
So far, it has already shook hands with the distance between your eyes, and the murk residing below the pair, the defined philtrum proudly standing in the middle of your nose and your mouth, the abnormal upward curve at both ends on the side of your parched lips, and the scream from your pupils that seem to sympathize with my observations.
With utmost patience, I have waited for my brain to perceive you under the category of ugly.




But I think that's just an excuse I say to myself so I could reason out why I'm still staring at your portrait after we have come to a compromise of parting.