When she sings her flaws
I see brush strokes.
I see delicately placed shading and lines
that create one
beautifully imperfect
masterpiece.

Not to be measured by dollar signs
or head turns of a passerby.
Never loved for a night
and forgotten by morning.
This beauty haunts me.

Embedding herself in my dreams
intruding on thoughts
that no one has seen;
not even myself.

My existence seems different,
brighter.
And even her darkest strokes
make me feel love.

When she sings her flaws
I see brush strokes.
And even her darkest strokes
see light.