I trace around the divots of your collarbones, like small hills on your perfect canvas of skin. My finger paints each freckle, each line, each imperfection.
My hands drift lower as I explore the body I already know by heart. I find the small mole on your ribcage, concealed every day, and only seen and admired by me. I find the faint outline of a scar, one on each breast, from your summer surgery. I lightly trace the one on the right, feeling the roughness beneath my fingertips. I hear your breath catch; you always hate when I touch your scars.
I finally look at you and see your eyes closed, chest rising and falling, making my hand move ever so slightly. I lean in closer to you and rest my hand over your heart. Your eyes open and I feel your breathing slow.
Why do you like touching that part of me? You ask gently, just barely a whisper. I continue running my index finger over the scar, sensing each imperfection in your otherwise flawless skin.
I know your not perfect, Santana. Your skin tells me that every time I touch you. I'm not perfect either so we're imperfect together. You didn't like what you saw in the mirror, so you changed it. You wanted to be noticed by other people. I noticed you. Wasn't that enough? I've loved you for so long, San. You've always been so beautiful to me.
I want to tell you this, but I'm not sure if you're ready. Your scars are still fresh, neatly carved and still a little raw. I don't know what to say, so instead I just smile and lift my hand to your cheek.
You're beautiful, I simply say. I hope it's enough for now. By the way you smile, im sure it is.
As long as you're smiling again, then I'm happy. Ill trace the scars and imperfections until you know you're beautiful to me.