You really aren't that good-looking, not taken as a whole. I'm not telling you anything new, you've said it to me, any number of times. You are too short, not muscular, certainly not classically attractive. You dress badly. You have altogether too much hair.
But there is something about parts of you. The way your upper lip curves seems to invite kisses -- more than invite, demand. That place at the top of your chest, where your shoulder slopes away from your neck, seems just made for my head to rest on. The scar that seems to beg me to trace its lnes with my finger. The angle of your chin. That troublesome lock of hair that falls across your face. The shifting shadows in your eyes.
Then there is the way you move. The patterns you weave in the air when you talk. The glance that you throw back at me when you leave. The way your stride quickens towards me, when you see me.
Your voice. Its warmth, its timbre. The way it curls round my senses and wraps me in comfort, and has an underlying purr.
And your hands when they touch me. How your body adapts, when mine is close, to fit so snugly.
You are a long way from perfect, but you are perfect for me.