The torso of my beautiful muse

I tell her she’s beau­ti­ful. Over and over again. As often as I can.

But she shakes her head, and says I only think so because I love her.

The front of my beautiful muse

It’s true. But would I love her any less if she didn’t have those soft, inno­cent eyes? If she didn’t wear her hair up, or down, or curly, or straight, or dif­fer­ent every time I saw her? If her body didn’t curve so dis­tract­ingly when she lets her­self fall into me?

The body of my beautiful muse

It makes me won­der if any­one sees the same thing that I do.

How much of it is her beauty, and how much of it is the beauty I see in her?

To me, her beauty is obvi­ous, not sub­tle in any way.

The legs of my beautiful muse

So I tell her, over and over again.

Sometimes I think she’ll start to believe me if I say it enough.