I've never really loved the look of "perfect" on a person.

But I've loved crooked teeth
and chapped lips
and the rips in his sweater
and calloused palms
and acne scars along his jawbone
and eyes that are slightly slanted upward
and pant legs that are too short
and watches worn with the time set two minutes early
and hair that always looks the same
and loud voices in libraries
and quiet whispers at crowded parties
and twisted ****** expressions
and dilated pupils
and the way too much of his gum shows when he smiles
and beauty marks in secret places
and the same white t-shirt worn over and over again
and eye colours that are indistinguishable
and cold, blank stares at 3 am
and hopeful stares at the break of dawn
and messy writing that's hard to read
and untied shoe laces
and lisps
and stutters
and jeans worn too low
and fists that make holes in walls
and breath that reeks of coffee
and lips that taste of tobacco
and eyelids that are heavy after a long day
and fading bruises
and bushy eyebrows
and clumsy feet
and hunched postures
and hands that are always too cold
and bandages stuck onto odd places
and cologne that's a little too strong...

 because I think that showing what is imperfect is what makes a person worth loving.