You do not know how very beautiful you are. The pleasure I get from watching you. Your mouth, a small succulent fruit, the curve of your neck and the dark furred patch that blossoms out into the air. Your eyes particularly, your large, dark honest eyes that belie the truth of your secretive soul. That irresistable patch of skin that unveils itself as you bend or turn or stretch, that part of you that promises the rest. All I can see gives me pleasure. I sneak glances. I secret them away.
I am telling you this because I know that you doubt your own physical presence. You have a less than positive opinion about your skin in the world. I empathise. My eyes look in the mirror. My brain interprets the image, my judgement leaps in with critique. I am you. I know you. I share you. We are pleasing to look at you and I. I objectify you in the privacy of my quiet times. You do not value the things I covet and therefore maybe there is some other one out there who covets my flesh in the same secret fashion. But this is the way with us. Always undervaluing our assets, hunkering down, expecting everybody else's bad regard.
Know then now that I do look and what I see is beautiful. An exterior to match that sweet secret person that I know is hidden within. Know now that I look and appreciate and, yes, lust. And if I am lusting then there will be others who lust in private, never telling you how they unpack you in their hidden thoughts, unpick you, sample you, keep pieces of you. Because you, my friend, are very beautiful indeed.