Perfectly imperfect

Your cold, blue steel eyes. Colourless and bland. Your hair, or lack therefore. A shining bald spot in the middle of what used to be curls. That unruly beard, how it spikes and scratches against my skin. Your teeth, fragile and forever needing expensive work that leaves us scrabbling together cents. Your ears, almost elfin, with their broad bottoms and pointed, jutting tops.

The way you pick and peck at the food I cook, inspecting every piece for a shred of onion or leek. Yet you devour the much maligned brussels sprout and the flesh of animals, yeasty beer and strawberry-flavoured anything. The incessant rumbling and grumbling in your sleep, pounding against my eyelids. The endless fascination for mind-numbing action movies and an obsession with pointless history. Those godamn awful ‘package pant’ shorts you insist on wearing. That blue shirt.

How you hide your intelligence, beaten and bruised from years of school and being told you’re nothing more than a rugby-playing buffoon. Scarred and battered from a father who barely earned the title. The constant need to always do better than the past generation, to make the circle collapse on itself.

I look deep into the eyes of strangers, but none mesmerize me like you do. You are perfectly imperfect to me, and that, beautiful person, is why I love you.

(Inspiration: the writing prompt ‘using only insults describe the person you love’).