Human Touch.
You’ve got the touch of sincerity. The palms of energy. The prints and lining on your hands are of endless treks of your wandering spirit. You have the calloused fingertips of a musician who picks along pressure and manifests the strums of what harms you most. You have the thumbs of an animal that can’t seem to hold onto what she loves most, and the grip of a generous sun hugging the gentle sky. You’ve the embrace of serenity. You have the hold of arms of branches that will never put me down, let me fall, or give out on me, but keep me high. Your hair has the waves of an ocean…but painted gold. You have the curves of an indefinite winding road and eyes as beautifully round and grandeur as a full blue moon. Pupils as dark and magnetic as a black hole. Mysterious, but they tend to tell me things. You’ve the lips of soft bliss, and the selfless lock of no limits, boundaries, or expectations.
You have all these. Stop saying you’re not beautiful.
