'You're pretty.' He said.
He didn't see the freckles
or the falling hair.
He didn't see her creases
that she hated so much.
Instead,
he traced her broken skin,
healed her broken heart,
'You're pretty', he said.
He traced the creases on her skin.
Tucked hair behind her ear.
He is a cliche.
He takes care of me,
even though I'm twenty five.
He forgets dates
(But then, so do I).
He makes me laugh,
takes my hand,
and
shows me the world
He doesn't pretend to be it.
He is a cliche,
But I wouldn't have it
any other way.
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