Letters never sent

Untitled 14.

1:52 a.m

she traces every inch of my body starting with my face. fair skin, she glances over my imperfections that scatter my canvas with my small skin colored bumps and few dark spots even the the light hair that makes home in between my eyebrows. She looks into my big, tired eyes and grins. "you're perfect" Though I would argue, I couldn't help but feel my lips tug up into a wide smile. I pondered on her choice of words and before I could process my actions  the question had already slipped from between my lips: "why perfect?"