You think the night is beautiful.
The way the stars dance across the sky and the way the snowflakes kiss your skin.
You tell me you love looking at the stars int the dead of night because it reminds you that we are tiny beings. One small planet in an infinity of a universe.
And you tell me when you think of that, it makes all your problems seem so insignificant compared to the vast emptiness that surrounds us.
You love semicolons on the wrists of people as scarred as you are.
Probabbly because it reminds you that you are not the only one waging wars inside of yourself.
You think a baby’s first cry and autumn is beautiful.
And you love the raw emotion of drunken tears and first kisses.
You ask me what I think is beautiful and all I can think about is the way your eyes begin to shine when you talk about something you love.
The way they look like a stadium on fire when you begin to sing.
Or when the corners of your mouth turn up slightly like the curve on the moon, when you argue with me for hours about how you love me more.
All I can think about is the way you laugher is air to my lungs, and the way your fingertips on my thigh rips the breath from my mouth.
I want you to know that I love the hills of your hips and the bruises on your bones. They are what make you, you.
But I want nothing more than to take your face into my hands and tell you that you are not merely “beautiful”
You are dazzling, exquisite, you are a work of art.
You are an apocalypse of love and rage.
You are broken bones and scarped knees and throated screams, so don’t you ever “beautiful”.
And I could go on about how your eyes make my cheeks erupt with a forest fire, or the fact that my stomach doesn’t feel butterflies, but instead when you sigh my name, I feel thousands of stars exploding in my chest that cause my bones rattle and my knees shake.
But instead, when you ask me;”
“What do you think is beautiful?
All I can answer with is,