The last time someone called me Beautiful.

He looked me in the eyes
and stared long at my skin,
and sighed at the sight.

He said that he loved me;
he carressed my cheek.
He pulled me in closer
to his masculine physique.

I took in his scent while batting
my eyes, and I played the coy
mistress as he pushed
them aside.

There was no warning,
no need for introduction.
There he was, and there I
prepared for his induction.

He ran fingers along my
body and whispered how sweet,
beneath his touch I felt
and how this wasn't goodbye.

I believed him.

The last time someone
called me "beautiful"
and was actually there,
where he could see my face,

my body, where we could share
an embrace, a kiss or two
without a care in the world.
Was 6 months ago.

No one calls me beautiful
and actually means a word they say
no one says I'm pretty without
first glancing away.

No one means more to me
than you who chose to leave.
No one means more to me
Than those eyes, those hands...

You made me feel safe
when no one else could.
You said you'd never leave
and I never thought you would.

I believed you.