She isn't lovely like daffodils blooming on a cold December, none of that miracle and magic just waiting to happen around the corner. She's not easy but she is simple, but still so lovely. I find her lovely in the way she holds my hand, walking downtown. She didn't have fireworks in her skin but touch as soft as bubbles at sea. She is everything I am not and everything I wanted. There is nothing poetic about the way she loves me but I love every bit of it. She is lovely in the way that's not demanding, always a constant reminder but never harsh. She is lovely in the way she calls herself mine.