Nonfiction for Emily

No, you are not beautiful in the sense of ideal Western aesthetic. It doesn't mean you couldn't be; there's face paint and computers and surgeries and little deceptions to perfection. I mean, you are pleasing to the eye: pretty, cute, hot, sexy, things vary depending on how you aim to appear. But you are not a picture. You feel beautiful to me. My beauty was found karaoke'ing in a basement in Chinatown, in a capella where no other music could be found, in a corn field by moonlight, in being young and without obligation, in running through rain and children and parents to reach the car and pancakes. Beautiful beyond the eyes, something to remember. Your beautiful is something frail, something that can be lost, a little magic that may be outgrown. Your beautiful is not a look, it's not something I see. It is the essence of you. You are worth fighting for, I just don't have a 1000 ships.