The prettiest person I know

is a creature of habit.
Every morning: pink shirt,
blond curls. “Do I look okay?”
 
Every morning, I said yes.
She’d roll her eyes.
“You’re my best friend;
you have to say that.”
 
I guess I do.
Your face is home.
How can that not be beautiful?
 
I guess I do.
Your face is home.
I never had to be beautiful.