“You are so beautiful.” I stress the last word.
She gives me back the same smile I give her. My eyes roam her face. I’m not sure what I’m looking for , but whenever this happens, I find something that makes me doubt what I just said. Something makes me feel like a liar. What will it be today?
It’s definitely not her complexion. Her skin is proof that melanin is a gift from nature. The only thing that reflects the sun better than the almond covering all over her is the pearly whites that come out when she parts her lips, especially in a smile.
Her beady black eye can’t be the lie-maker either. They’re an abyss I gladly will fall into. The thing with most chasms, however, is that they’re void. Occasionally, I catch that void. It doesn’t make the way she looks at me any less enchanting.
Her ombré locks might be deceptive, but they’re not enough to make a liar. They start off very dark. A depth much like her eyes. The difference between them, the transition. Every fine strand reaches a point where it seems they had an encounter with natural bleach, spending more time as the ends are reached. Maybe that’s why they don’t curl much? She has them unpacked and combed out right now. I run a hand through, confident that I won’t mess it up. I know her hair more than anyone. I know her whole body more than anyone.
My fingers have traced, time and time again, over every bow and arch. My fingers have run over her legs that seem to go on forever. The running on of her legs gives everyone the illusion that she’s tall. It’s not like she’s short, she’s just not what everyone would be quick to see.
Because of the current factors, I can only see right where her perky breasts start. I hold them in my hand. I trace my thumb over the nipple of the left one. I pay attention to that one first because I know how she feels about it. The left nipple isn’t like the other one. It’s flat, only pointing out when stimulated. Once, that would be a reason I’d call myself a liar after telling her she’s beautiful, but not anymore. Both of them are beautiful, lefty just needs a little more attention, and i’d gladly give it now because I learnt to love it. I’ve learnt to love them both. I am in love with the entirety of her. It took a while, but it’s the best kind of love. The one that grew.
I had no choice, anyway. I had to learn to love her. I wouldn’t be getting another her any time soon. Of course, there are ways to achieving that, but I lack the resources and the heart.
My fingers trickle down the rest of the bare skin under her breasts as I let go. I smile at her again. She does a perfect job mirroring again. She always does. Then again, I can’t help but wonder if it’s true of that’s just how I see it. I read that your brain tricks you into seeing yourself as 5 times more attractive in the mirror than you really are.
I chuckle at the thought. I never really liked the girl in the mirror from the start. If that’s 5 times more attractive, how would I feel about the real thing? Nevertheless, that information only mattered before. It was only worth something when I hadn’t learnt to love who’s right in front of me. Right now, it doesn’t matter. Whether or not she’s as I see, for her, I have a love that grew. It’s not about what I can see anymore. It’s about what she is. It’s about what I am. I’ve learnt that I’m beautiful, not because you can see it, but simply because I am.