I want him to look at me,
examine my body in a way that
is all too familiar to him,
as though he knows my every dimple,
every lumpy textured area,
every insecurity deeply rooted on my skin,
I want him to see me the way I do not see myself,
which is saying a lot.
I need him to call me beautiful, to really call me beautiful,
not the Are we going to have sex tonight type beautiful,
or the You are sexy in that tight mini black dress type beautiful.
Humor me, even as cliché as it might sound,
I want to be told that the moon and the stars hold no comparison to me,
and when their luster fades, I will continue to shimmer.
Tell me that my smile and my eyes are just as radiant as the nightly lit leaves,
and maybe even as warming as the sun rays cascading the sea,
I want you to see me, to really see me,
be my eyes and recreate my sight,
and maybe that way, I will begin to realize
that I am as beautiful as you say.