I walk down the street and see majesty in men. Not just the gods, sculpted and sleek, that join us mortals on the soil of earth. It is in those creatures some define as boys I find adorableness, making my heart swell with joy as they let themselves be accepted.

Who is to say that boys can’t be beautiful? Why can’t the lashes that frame their eyes be lovely? When their sweaters bag over their wrists I don’t see them delicate as china, but like a flower. When their hair falls in front of their eyes, my fingers naturally reach out to brush it out of their faces just to see their smile.

I wish that I could tell these boys how magnificent they are. They would never take my words to heart, I know, but mark my words. If writing it in the sky would convince them I would fly the plane myself.

Because there is a boy I know whose freckles remind me of a faerie. His eyes are warm as the leaves that hang from trees and yet they sparkle like the stars at night. His eyelashes curl towards the sky like they are being called by the sun and kiss my hand when he puts it to his forehead. His smile creates dimples big as craters and freckles that construct constellations. He thinks that he is too skinny and when he hugs me he frowns into my collarbone. His laughter is a mix of a giggle and a snort, always followed by a flush of embarrassment.

And I want to tell him, every day, that he is beautiful.