Wildflower

Her hair

the most beautiful shade.

I thought it couldn’t be natural,

but it was.

A color that stunning

a bottle could never contain.

Her eyes were two perfect almonds

except when she was in love.

Then they would squint,

her whole face would,

squishing like it was melting

from love.

It may not sound cute,

but I loved that look

because of what existed behind it,

her adoring me,

her feeling absolutely loved.

And she was.

I never loved anyone

the way I love her.

She was everything,

the most perfect woman in the world.

And she loves me.

Me.

How could that be?

How could someone so perfect

love someone so broken?

But she was broken too —

mistreated,

cast aside,

taught to feel unlovable.

Nothing could be farther from the truth.

She was the most lovable creature

I had ever met.

It was my love

that would glue her pieces together,

make her whole again,

help her see her worth,

help her feel how much she could mean.

Make her see her fractures

as part of her perfection —

cracks I would kiss

and name

so she knew she was lovely

and should never feel shame.

Perfection isn’t structured or plastic.

Her perfection is exuberant, joyful,

alive no matter the circumstance —

a beautiful wildflower

growing where it shouldn’t.

Like her hair color,

she is natural,

beautiful beyond belief,

and should never be trapped

in a bottle.

She is the most lovely, wildflower.