you can feel his heartbeat through his fingertips,
the way he touches you so lightly.
he traces the outline of your ribs, your stomach, the marks on your waist.
"you're so beautiful," he breathes,
a tremor in his voice that echoes in his hands.
your mind is telling you he's a liar.
"how can you call this beauty?" you ask him,
pleading for some proof that might silence the constant self-hatred.
his heartbeat is deafening.
"you're beautiful like a downpour."
he brushes the hair from your eyes.
"you're beautiful the way a symphony is beautiful,
and the way the sky is beautiful
after the stars have disappeared
and all that's left is sky, endless, beautiful sky."
he's crying now, and he kisses you.
he whispers,
"you're beautiful like a eulogy."