Masterpiece

The moment when he looks at you and there’s your reflection,

clear like this morning in the mirror before you arrived

but now your hair’s messed up and your nose looks swollen,

and the wrinkles under your eyes reveal fatigue, age, 

the way you pull at your skin when wiping off liner - 

and you think to yourself, mid-way reminiscence,

 “I’ve really got to stop doing that”

but also, “Wow.” Just wow.

The moment when he looks at you - and you’re all he sees.

The nice outfit, the spot on your cheek. 

You’ve been lost for a long time, decades maybe,

but he's found you now, eyes wide, calm, staring.

The imperfections mesh with flawlessness;

it’s a live portrait, so you don’t move. 

This is his viewpoint: he accepts you,

petals and thorns, rips and holes, dirt and dust,

he wants all of it. Every junkyard scrap and rusty corner,

your flat butt and small chest, the stress episodes and indecisiveness,

your inability to relax sometimes when nothing is going on,

the constant fretting that drives him up the wall,

or whatever is specific to your body and who you are.

He wants you. 

It’s in his eyes, miles away or an inch apart. 

He watches when you arrive, the time you’re there,

when you leave. He doesn’t want to miss a minute of you.

“I love you,” he says. “I love all of you.”

It’s hard to believe it when you look in the mirror - 

the mirror isn’t alive, doesn’t know you, and doesn’t really see you;

it just reflects your own interpretation of yourself.

Ugly, pretty, depends on the day, your mood, how long you slept, 

whether you’re sick or not, the tiny details of your makeup:

this is your self-image. Your viewpoint. Most of the times, it’s hurtful. 

You’re just never good enough.

And then that moment comes, when he looks at you - 

and you realize how beautiful you are to someone.

You are a work of art, every bump, every hair, every cell in your body.

You are the calm and the storm, the summer heat and winter breeze.

You are a blend of colors and textures, softer on some days, a stubborn rock on others.

You are high as Cloud 9 and low as an old oak’s roots,

you are the northern star in a black sky, and the black sky to a northern star. 

You are sugar in lime, a pearl in sand, an oil painting with smudges.

You are you. It was done on purpose.

Look in his eyes and you’ll see, you are nothing less than a masterpiece.