Her.
The woman who stood before me.
Her blonde hair was pulled to one side, each individual strand wrapped up in one another as if they were performing a dance. Solemn and sweet. Intricate and slow. Their dance lit up the way her smile sat lightly upon her olive tan skin.
Oceans wished they could create waves as perfect as the ones her lips presented to whomever may be lucky enough to see them. To see them smile. To hear them speak. To feel them against their innately not as beautiful lips.
The way her eyes could lead ships to a dock in the middle of a hurricane. And the ships which could rest peacefully down the slope of her nose, taken aback at how something so forgotten could hold so much beauty.
All surrounded by the curve of her face.
But she is not perfect.
Sometimes the dancing that envelopes her hair and allows it to sit so nicely upon her shoulder turns into a rage, the hair pulling at one another, splitting, falling out. After a shower, it’s easy to see the aftermath of that war.
And her lips. The lips that mother nature might as well have designed herself. Those lips shared the waves of the ocean, yet the cracks of the deserts; oftentimes she winced at the pain of that drying out desert.
Her blue, blue eyes, that right above them held a deep red scar from having been burnt as a child. That red paint dripped down the side of her face, bleeding into her eyelid that kept safe those oh so perfect eyes.
The curvature of her face held beauty marks and freckles,
defacing the olive tan she was given.
Yet let me tell you.
I never knew the aftermath of a war- could be so beautiful.
I never knew how much I would yearn to feel a desert grace my lips.
I never knew a painting as beautiful as the painting that was laid upon her face.
I’ve never seen a scenario in which defacing the surface made it hundreds of times more stunning than the original.
Her perfections are features only possessed by gods.
But her imperfections;
they are handcrafted by God Himself.