you're different in the way
that when I took
my make up off
you looked at me
the same way you had
when lipstick coated my lips,
and concealer covered my flaws.

you're different in the way
when my shorts were
a bit too short
you still stared
into my eyes,
and then
you slept in an
old recliner just so
I wouldn't feel alone.

you're different in the way
that when you look at me
I don't feel like I'm being judged
and every flaw pointed out;
I feel like I'm being looked over
like a work of art in a museum

you're different in the way
that you grin at me
like a giddy child
and look at me
in a way he never did;
not at my body,
but into my soul