I tell her she is beautiful.
She tells me it's the lighting, or the angle, or the filter.
I tell her she is beautiful again and again,
hoping she believes me.
Her bright green eyes stop my heart and her kisses start it once more.
I died a thousand deaths the night we first made love;
the dead man I was born to be, but again and again she kissed me.

An evening rain
taps on the window quickening our racing hearts.
Her eyes locked with mine, warm pink lips purring my name.
I tell her she is beautiful.
Her smooth, flawless skin swimming in her locks of copper.
I kiss the freckles on her nose.
Her fingertips explore my chest.
I move in her and she moves with me.
My summer rain, my perfect storm.

We sit at the shore,
listening to the rain hiss and the waves break on the cool, pocked sand.
I hold her hand and tell her she is beautiful.
“How beautiful?” she asks.
“I would write a poem, if I was a poet.”

“Try anyway.”
She smiles.