At 6 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, I wake up
on a beige carpet
staring at an unfamiliar ceiling,
sandwiched comfortably between a bookcase full of science fiction novels and fantasy and a bed that sits unusually high from the ground.

My sleeping bag is navy, a stark contrast
to the bright theme of colors that surround me
and as the sun shines through slated windows, the Harry Potter clock ticks violently.
I haven't slept well:
my spine feels twisted within my flesh, and slowly
I drag myself upinto the customary sitting position.
I see her beautiful stripped stocking feet dangling
over the edge of her mattress.

Perfection hangs with those feet
in this perfectly messy little room
in a house like to ones you dream about when you're a child.
The mansion on the hill with the maid and the dog;
except there's no dog, and I'm ok with that

because she's here
so it's still perfect.

She's always been here,
and I've always loved her,
and as I watch her pale frame move up and down quietly with every breath
underneath her yellow patterned sheets,

I realize that she doesn't know she's beautiful.

She doesn't see herself the way I do.

She has never seen herself as a goddess;
she's never heard bells when she's laughed.

I do.

I can only hope that one day,
maybe years from now, she'll catch a brief glimpse of the beauty that she exudes
every moment of her existence,
and maybe then she can love herself a fraction of the amount that I love her,
in her stocking feet
at 6 o'clock on a Saturday.