She hates the way she looks
first thing in the morning
and refuses to look in the mirror on her way down
to make coffee

He adores the way she talks
in her sleep, and runs his fingers
along the curves of her cheeks
and believes there is nothing
more beautiful,
more pure,
more innocent
than the way her hair is imperfect,
her skin left untouched and
her eyes when they have yet to see the world
as she turns to face him at six a.m.


She doesn't know that she's beautiful,
He doesn't know he's her world.