You’re so beautiful,
I think,
that even if another had your eyes
and your thin white lips
and your dimpled smile
and your freckles that hide in the sunlight
and only appear when I’m around
and the staccato of your laughter
and your jagged fingernails
and your habit of slicing off pieces of bread
too thick to fit in the toaster
and the whimpers you make
as you get out of bed
and the pear-shaped birthmark
on the side of your hip
and the slight red of your soles
and the sensitive patch of skin
right above your left knee
and the blonde hairs between your knuckles and your dorsum
and the scratched scars on your thigh,
they wouldn’t be as beautiful as you.
You
