Here’s the thing, I don’t find poetry in the fact that you don’t find yourself beautiful, I want to sit on your lap and kiss your face and show you everything about you that is so beautiful, until you see it. Love isn’t finding beauty in someone not loving themselves. This is so important. This is so fucking important. Sadness isn’t beauty, it’s just fucking relatable.
I don’t want to kiss you, I want to press my lips to yours for minutes, hours, until I can put words to the ache that seems to saturate and pulse through me when I look at you. I want to press my hands to your skin like they are my last means of salvation and just hold them there, I want to put my head on your chest and feel your heart beat, and beat, and beat. I want to lie with you for hours and explore every inch of your limbs, I want to watch the sun move across your bare stomach and kiss the passage of each hour. I want to kiss you until we are breathless and shaking and staring at each other and then I want to fall asleep with you and wake up and do it all over again and never let go. I just want to give and give and give to you because you look at me like I’m beautiful and sometimes I start to believe I might be. You feel like a first kiss, every time. I can feel your love through your lips like the heat of the sun.