What I see


The way your lips curl ever-so-slightly when you smile.

The way your hands clasp together so gently when you sit patiently waiting. Sometimes you tap your fingers against your hands, sometimes picking cuticles.

How your eyes look in the afternoon sunlight, with golden slivers around blackest-black pupils.

The dimples in your knuckles, on soft hands.

Your hairline — its perfect line surrounding your face, the perfect accent to your strong cheekbones and nose.

The colour of your hair, with silver streaks and insubordinate waves is just like your vibrant personality and I love it.

The way your beard grows in at the end of the day, dark and imposing, across your chin and up sandpaper cheeks.

Your small stature in such strong juxtaposition against your powerful will and conviction.

Your wide smile, crossing perfectly imperfect teeth, kissed with coffee and red wine and great food with wonderful friends.

The lines scattered across your face that speak of hearty laughter and happiness.

The strength of your gait, denying the roundness of your shoulders. Humility, sensitivity, quietude.

You glance downwards when you’re happy, I wonder why? It’s charming.

Strong hands that could pull a sled up a thousand hills if your child asked a thousand times more, calloused and gentle.

A broad back and strong arms made for hugging and holding and folding bed sheets and shoveling snow and carrying the weight of the world.

The curve where your neck meets shoulder and skin is softest, a secret where stress and age cannot penetrate but the small faces of children can.

I hear the soft lilt in your voice when you speak about the things you love, and think I could listen to you speak all day.

I listen to your spontaneous giggling, deep from within, percolating and bursting into frequent, all-encompassing laughs. Your eyes squint and you pull your chin back, leaning forward.

Your face when nobody is watching, relaxed, considering, wondering, lost in thought.

The way you cross your arms, or shove hands deep into pockets with arms tight and straight-as-an-arrow spine stretching tall.

Your feet, slightly pigeon-toed, wearing new boots with blue laces that must be so comfy and warm.

The way your body relaxes when you see your son run from the school yard into your arms, as though everything in the world has stopped and waited for this moment, every day.

A softened body, welcoming and warm. Full of gentle curves and comforting cushioning.

Skin so rich and deep and glistening in the sun.

Tiny veins on the inside of your arm where it tickles most of all and we talk about where all the blood is hurrying to today.

Small toes, big toes, hairy toes, painted toenails.

Small in stature, tall in form, petite and plus and everything in between.

Shimmering pale and deepest dark, skin telling of adventures and failures and wins and dreams.

Kindness in the small gestures, compassion, humour, love, generosity, patience, intelligence, concern, the biggest heart and the saddest eyes.

I wish you could see you the way I see you. You, beautiful you. Each and every one of you. I see you. I see your beauty.

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